The Watchers
They loiter, smoke pensively, whisper low.
some pace the thin snow
writing mist clouds that look like thoughts
roaming the night air.
All of them shuffle, wait and watch.
If the sky topples from the stars tonight
those who wait in the cold,
those watchers will still be there
for they're the dark silhouettes of myself
darker than any night they are.
Those forms are cut outs,
spectral representations
shaped by many a listless memory.
Long night vigils when I slept not
but somnambulantly waited
eyes glued to nothing.
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