When night falls,
the watchman calls.
He strums his guitar to the aching wind,
soothing her, gently, so that she will sing
and not scream.
For even the night does dream.
Even the weather feels the agony and terror
of the beasts that come together
on these cold nights.
He patrols,
hunter in search of prey,
he can smell the rot and decay,
it lingers when the demons
have been at play.
He searches high and low,
amongst the debris of the guttural overflow.
No nook or cranny does he overlook.
When the night is dark,
and the demons have struck.
The air stills,
then screams in pain.
She sees
what will happen next
and she cries,
tears of rain.
In the dark moonlight,
on this cold harsh night,
the watchman walked into a trap.
The demons circled,
and ripped the guitar from his back.
Stamped their marks over his face,
with heavy laced boots of lead and hate.
The watchman was down,
His eyes drowning in the red
seeping from his head.
As the night turned pitch black.
When the night calls,
the watchman falls.
Thanks for reading
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100+ all new poems not shared here before.
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