The Watchers
Upon the hills where time stands still,
With ticking eyes and beaks of will,
Three figures wait in silent pose,
A world of secrets, no one knows.
Their faces made from wood and clock,
A moving puzzle, gears that lock,
With tailored suits and vacant stares,
They whisper riddles to the air.
The largest looms with tilted grace,
A bird, a man—one hollow face,
A tea bag hangs beneath its beak,
As if to steep the words it speaks.
The others, long and thin as reeds,
With noses sharp like quills of ink,
Their voices lost in unseen deeds,
They watch, and judge, they don’t blink.
Above them, spheres and metal birds,
Carry weight without their words,
A world askew, a fate untold,
dreams are stitched in brass and gold.
So tell me now, what do you see?
A painted dream? A mystery?
Or are they watching, peering through,
And whispering their tales to you?
About the Creator
Marie381Uk
I've been writing poetry since the age of fourteen. With pen in hand, I wander through realms unseen. The pen holds power; ink reveals hidden thoughts. A poet may speak truth or weave a tale. You decide. Let pen and ink capture your mind❤️
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Comments (1)
The work of a real creative writer is what I see. Good job on a fun read.