The Watchers by A.S. Washington
From the rafters they'll watch. In silence,
hoping for your demise, to watch you fade.
Praying to God that it'll be they, who are there,
to watch the drop, as you fall down on your face. A broken,
destitute piece of a ruined town. Akin to the,
New Jersey coastline, when that bitch Sandy was around.
They'll lie in wait, for ages for their chance to strike.
Whether it be a physical blow, or one devised,
to your damage your character in spite,
of all the things you have done for those spineless devils,
who kiss your cheek with poison on their lips.
The gall of them, do they not know, the torture you'd inflict,
like Chaucer. Eviscerating them in fiction and prose,
but be kind to them in life, that is what God's,
scripture imposed. Standing there clapping,
watching you perform. Though their minds work,
to see you constantly alarmed. For you are a writer,
they are the reader you'd hope for. Who would treasure,
all of the feelings evoked more? On every page,
tirelessly written. Understand they surely can't,
of your tireless addiction. For until you reach the mountain top,
they will only watch. They will not move,
not one feather among your flock.
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