The watchers of old

They can taste my thoughts—
the watchers of old
As tantalizing as they may be to ingest
my musings are bitter and chalky

The glaze of desire that flavours the shire
bears the tang of fixation
Vast ponderings of “what if”
“What for” and “how come”
I’m wholly conscious of the strangulation of life

O’ sailors of yore
lingering in dark recollections
Emaciated and stagnating
in peril and
Feral
Bleeding lore from the watchers of old

The voice of reason remains unseasoned
Festering pivots and falsehoods
Blistering “how comes” and “how coulds”

Blinded by “I can’t” and “I shouldn’t”
Sheltered by “I won’t” and “I wouldn’t”

We bury the blade to enliven the fade
A distraction that quenches the itch
If only a moment
Tell me, my soul
Wherefore won’t thy mend?

Give me pills
Give me pastors
But they’ve both been disasters
Plastered and indignant
Defiled and malignant
I must lay waste to the watchers of old

But the enemy lies within
The vociferous din
The sorrow
The disdain
Flagrant maskers of pain
My subconscious; my watcher of old