All Along the Watchtower
In twilight’s grasp, where shadows cling, The Watchtower stands—a somber thing. Its stones, like secrets, cold and gray, Whisper tales of faith’s decay.
Within those walls, devoutly blind, They count the hours, lost in time. Their hymns, a dirge for questioning souls, Echo through corridors where doubt unfolds.
The Watchtower’s gaze, unyielding, stern, Marks the faithful, their hearts discerned. Yet hidden cracks mar its sacred face, Revealing fractures in their grace.
They guard the gate, eyes fixed above, Awaiting signs, celestial love. But what if stars, in silent jest, Conspire against their sacred quest?
The loyal trudge a narrow line, Their footsteps etched in ancient rhyme. Yet shadows dance, mocking their plight, As doubt creeps in, a motionless night.
And when the moon, with silver thread, Unravels questions left unsaid, The Watchtower trembles, its foundation weak, A monument to hope that dares not speak.
Deep in the thought, they softly tread, Within the Watchtower’s veiled dread. For faith and fear, entwined they be, All along this enigmatic sea.
June 10, 2024
Copyright © Courtney Hubbert | Year Posted 2024
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