The Observers of Old

Written by: Laura Breidenthal

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