Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to grow...

erbacce-press

Stephen Shimmans

Tales with the Night-watchman

 

 
The life around me seems to shrink
The overwhelming darkness consumes my soul
The night watchman eats greedily as I approach the dock.
His grunts and snorts echo in the dungeons of my mind
Life’s trivial pursuits seem insignificant
every time I gaze into its mysteries.
The night-watchman holds out,
his pale hands and breathes deeply.
His gaunt face and sunken eyes watch me attentively
All around me memories loll in the mist of the night fog.
He shoves his hand into my pocket
removes two coins both bronze.
He pushes me onto the boat
and sets out on his journey through the mist.
This is your journey he mumbles
Look at the people you’ve hurt along the way.
Family, Friends all will loom at you before the end
The mist is warm on my skin or that’s what I want to believe it is.
But really I am a shell, a capsule of what I once was,
I am now forgotten.
I near the end of my journey,
Life and feeling has escaped my mind
I watch as the boat sails silently south.
I see your face.

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