Leary, dreamy, worn and faint
The saint sat stone-faced and speechless
Flat like unchurched waters
Brought back, brutally attacked and unattached
Flash of lightning rippled through his forehead, malnourished and overwhelmed

Emotions untamed became abridged
Then fringed and kept away for later days

Blank, without consent
Like the Watchman's Shadow

He peers, intently, precisely, maticulously
From his cell window,
High upon a stoney tower
Fixed upon the free, the wide smilers and radiant-eyed, Weeping bitterly until his own eyes wax dry
Alone and aloof, with questioning in mind;
Why?
For rather would he die!

Yet he has already begun
Slowly, pitifully, and sacredly
For it clicks with him as he finds himself again with the only company he has known

So greeting his old familiar freind,
He thanks him for his enduring faithfulness
Bowing in reverent respect
And again paying his ode
To the Watchman's Shadow