The Watchman
A poetic remix of Ezekiel 33:1–20
i stand here silent in a field
ravished by the fall
i see a hermit
blinded
clinging to the shortest straw
one minute til infinity
clocks are running down
i hear four horsemen
thunder
and still there’s no trumpet sound
and I can taste the blood moon’s light
hear the blind man’s cry
across the field far
too far
to carry the bread and wine
what if the only road i see
is a dead-end street?
still i hear heaven
screaming
tell the blind man how to see
oh God tell me what’s happening
my God tell me what is going on
why can’t the blind man see what I see?
there is a way out but only one.
still the watchtower stands
cold and empty
against the blazing sky
the horsemen are coming
closer, closer
no watchman sounds the cry
and I see the blood
drip from my hands
and I feel it spilling
warm over my feet
and I see that
the watchman has a name
and the watchman’s name is
me.
