#watchman
though deep he sleeps sometimes,
combining this exhaustive restorative
of old age, that alternates with a restlessness
rest of old age ~ the brain's nightly self-cleansing,
both necessities absolute
so he be unsurprised, by a parallel process,
occurring beside him, as woman rumbles, mumbles,
all the while reenacting the things we dare not acknowledge
in the waking hours, much too painful, much to fearfully real unreal,
but, best unrealized
she bolts upright, looks around, attempting to cross back,
looking, investigating, ascertaining time and place, localizing
her orientation, while assessing external+imagined dreamt threats,
till satisfied sufficient that whatever dreamt, realized or dreamisized,
before, going prone once-more
the watch man observes, the critical threat level, doesn't
approach the red line, not requiring hands-on interventions,
and relieved, that she has expunged and expelled the mind's many
molecules of memories, true or false, real or revisionary, making clean
white tissued neuron+cell for the morrow
and thus he reminds himself, that he be watch man, observing, uninterfering, is too, is also, a definitive infinite
only love poetry
Jul 29, 2025
Jul 29, 2025 at 6:59 PM UTC
Silver beams of moonlight,
Pierce the starry night,
The sun has gone to sleep,
As the Watchman prepares to fight,
Behind the Southern Mountains,
A storm begins to brew,
The darkened clouds roll over,
And the ocean is no longer blue.
The Watchman is free of slumber,
As he looks upon the land,
He holds their destiny in his palm,
As it crumbles in his hand,
No one dares to combat him,
Of equals there are but few,
They live faraway in distant lands,
Near where the Pheonix flew.
One step it takes for him to cross,
From the Rolling Valley to River Dry,
And far above the sleeping bodies,
Sit the scornful Watchman’s eyes,
With each step the Earth will tremor,
And shake the huts below,
The plants they droop in bleeding sorrow,
As they can no longer grow.
He lets out a booming laugh,
That parts the darkened clouds,
As he thinks of his growing power,
That makes the Heavens shroud,
But in the distance a call is heard,
That mutes the Watchman’s laugh,
Upon a silver horse he rides,
The Chevalier splits the night in half.
Galloping through the ocean breeze,
The Chevalier quickly approaches,
Towards the mighty Watchman’s land,
On the darkness sunlight encroaches.
For this day the Watchman waited,
To fight off he who wants his throne,
This land is for him to own,
The battle horn has now been blown.
Down below the people rise,
From their slumber they awake,
And head outside into the street,
To see what will be their fate.
Rising above the rocky hill,
Appears a foreign man,
Perhaps he’s come to set them free,
And save them from the old Watchman.
The Chevalier is now upon them,
Pulling his horse to cease his run,
I’m here to save the village people,
But a reply he got but none.
Instead the Watchman cocked his head,
And screamed into the sky,
Do not threaten me now Horseman,
Or I’ll bury you in River Dry.
Blinded by his arrogance,
The Watchman failed to see,
The Chevalier draw his bow and arrow,
And plunge it in his knee.
Upon the Southern Mountains,
The Watchman slowly fell,
His body turned to Ashes,
And loudly rung the death bell.
Be gone my sweet People,
All People young and old,
Escape this wretched wasteland,
And free your desperate souls.
You’re no longer bound by his watch,
So seek another land,
Follow your heart and fill its desires,
And your life will be so grand.
Jul 28, 2020
Jul 28, 2020 at 1:51 AM UTC
There's a museum
where love once welled freely,
a collection of relics and odds and ends,
carefully preserved behind glass panes and neat labels
gathering dust and history.
Sometimes I walk the quiet aeortic halls
treading familiar corridors to the echo of footsteps,
to read the plaques and leave fingerprints on the windows
exhibiting the old lives and old loves,
which have traded technicolour for antiquity
the night watchman of my own heart.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 4:28 AM UTC
Ariseth watchman, O' prophet's dust off the dirt from thy feet. Ourn messiah is close, Iisoús Christós,
He's at the narrow door
Knocking; hair white as
Snow, countenance as
A white sun.
Waken, liven up thy hope,
For ourn lord hast risen; all thing's made subject to him.
Art thou ashamed of the great "I AM",
O' Christian? Is thy lamp trimmed, full of oil? Or is thy lamp half full.
Art thou ready? Or playing
World as time ticks through.
From thy slumber, wash the crust out of thy eyne, judgements soon to
Befall this sphere, get thy mind
Settled, focus on what's right.
Watchman watch, O' prophet's write,
Yeshua's coming as a thief;
To rapture up his bride.
©Brandon nagley
©lonesome poets poetry
©prophetic poetry
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 9:42 AM UTC
Counting up the rhymes
Within the gears are clicking
The years redeeming time
I see beleaguered multitudes
I realize the cost
The confusion of the children
The Weeping of the Lost
I do not want to frighten you
Don't want your hope to die
But I cannot see you uninformed
Believing outright lies!
12 midnight is about to ****
Look around. You'll see the signs.
The world's a ticking time bomb
And it's 11:59...
*tick
tick
tick
tick
(?)*
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 3:23 PM UTC
Sometimes I imagine
Sasquatch on my porch;
A watchman
For my home.
Eyes open wide-
-He peers down the road,
Making sure
We are safe.
From the break of dawn
To streetlights turning on
Sasquatch tarries.
Always watching.
He sees the deer;
He sees the neighbors;
He sees the mouse
Running from her car
To beneath our deck
Where he stands;
But Sasquatch
Does not stop him.
He just stands there
Watching,
Waiting,
Staring down the street...
Hoping
-Maybe one day
He will come alive
To stop the mouse.
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 12:48 AM UTC
The watchmen sits at the darkest hour waiting for the morning shower.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 7:36 PM UTC