It has been so long, so long within the arms of this fortress, and I can shout no more over walls, or whisper through grated gate and portcullis. The only embrace afforded in such a place comes from cold stone; I could crumble for loneliness and weep with weariness, the echoes of my frantic pace the closest I could call company. I would rather fall, forgotten, and bleed my warmth into the earth than stay here and safe. If she be a wolf, let her devour me and be done.
A waste, Watchman? That I am already, and can only more become, if I heed your cold command.
Follow me, if you like, if you are even able to leave your high tower. I depart, to find what is beyond the walls, and you are welcome—Your advice is not unwanted, but you command no more.
Remember, precious, that when you hinge your happiness on another, that your tears are theirs to call, and when you hand out your heart, you offer something to destroy.
You have been flippant and free of late, and have, without right or worry, put us in danger’s way. I’ll not stand for it, precious. You act like a pup, and if it does not stop, I will leash you. No more wandering beyond the walls, with gates wide, waiting for your return. You will sit inside, and your friend can wait at the gate until we are sure she is not fanged.
Beware and Behave, precious, if you do not want to bleed.
1 comment:
Interesting piece. The dual perspective is interesting; separate, yet on the same topic.
I would ask if you see yourself as poet or watchman, if only one...?
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