The Watchful

Days rusted the decoration
as mountains and churches
pale into emptiness
like the vessels they travel.
I walked between my hands
tilted in imbalance
like a certain world
ordered by the lustful scourge
always at our backs.
Death traces every gesture,
my only faith
accounts for these changes
committed like a testament
to your heart’s showing.
I would embrace that pain
and release its anger
as if I was truly born
learning from the watchful.
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