by Josiah Peachey
Watchman what of the night?
Watchman what of . . .
Watchman . . .
For the trouble that has come upon you,
Reasons gone to seed and hard to find,
waste withering to some failed
mutant mutiny of unpetaled spring.
Wild blear-eyed soul this separation stops mid-fire misguided neurons,
till all the spaces in between my brain ring with silence and I die of dry eyes.
Watchman, what hath God wrought?
Watchman what hath God . . .
Watchman what God?
Watch what . . .
Watch for in the hour that ye think not the Good Shepherd . . .
Whither all these mad flocks of uncounted sheep, wrung fruitless wool wilt?
This blue glow, not like spring sky, severs ribbons of grey, feinting actuality. Phony fiend.
Watchman, what weariness is this?
Watchman, what weariness . . .
Watch and pray lest . . .
Watch. The spirit is willing
but the brain is boiling sick with pixels. Pray.
Josiah Peachey enjoys writing, conversation, philosophy, and naps.
Photography by Kenneth Godoy