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.