The Observers of Old
To be forever bent in a lack of better term
To lie still in darkness like a sad, blind worm
To eat your words as a form of grainy nourishment
To smell the dampness of your tempered encouragement
It is a blessing like no other
To be speechless but so full of color
And to feel the good digest to the mass
No matter how blind we have come to pass
There are beings that long to comfort us
As we lie still in the gloom of lush
There is a presence that may appear obscure
Blank faces that are captured in a blur
They are the observers and they are so still
They absorb what they can and eat what they will
There is nothing to fear for they are our benediction
Out in the sidelines trading gravity for friction
They are not angels I am told
They are not demons, dark and bold
They are quiet spirits that are attracting our minds
They choose many—all various kinds
It is inspiring to know that the following beings
Engorge on our souls—such nurturing feedings!
Eyes are opening in blissful imagination
As they cultivate the grounds with twangs of inspiration
The observers will watch us all until the conclusion
What they see is what we imagine—and the rest is an illusion
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