Watchman, What of the Night?

– I. The Burial of the Dead –

And so I asked him:
‘Watchman, dear Watchman, what of the Night?
What is left of the Light? My sight? I’d rather dream
Of snow-sprinkled dawns and little wooden bridges
On rickety dashboards against distant Rocky ridges
Or silvery Citibank lights twinkling with Manhattan trepidation
Or a glittering London with SkyTrain stations.’

But then he showed me the needles in space, the stampede prairie race
The embrace of home, ‘I don’t want to leave this place.’
And then the sound kicked out, then came the push and the Fruit and
The Fall into the unspectacular life of The Adult.

– II. The Fire Sermon –

‘Watchman, dear Watchman, what of the Night?
In this place of bliss, why so uptight?’

And the Watchman began:
‘What is the Gospel according to man?
Does eternal salvation lie within the “I Can?”
Or is it nothing?

Amidst the wrath, the tears, the mire, the strife
The starlit complexities of human life
You live in a world so full of locked-up spirits
Of detracted souls seeking a mediated experience
Of anaesthetising digitality, quantifiable and easy
Of hedonistic creatures drilling holes ’till they’re queasy
And fake, plastic characters telecasting perfection
Their faceless complexions squealing with demoralised abjection.

What is left for you here that has not already been done?
Greatness is unoriginal, steeped in your forefathers’ blood
Your dreams have passed, your opportunities are grim
God is dead and you killed Him.

It’s all so asphyxiating, this sweet air of loneliness
It speaks of suffering, malevolence, so bitter, it’s meaningless.’

And the Watchman twitched with glistening rage
In silence and blindness, Armageddon came
And Ozymandias laughed, and his scream unfurled
‘King of Kings, Destroyer of Worlds’
You’re an imposter, a fraud, your treachery abounds
Two worlds destroyed by madness, you in the background
And the ones who love you are lost and afraid
Watchman, dear Watchman, look upon the mess you’ve made.

– III. What the Thunder Said –

But I shouted back: ‘That is not of the Night!
Blackness may come, but therein is the Light!
Grandeur and nobility will crush the alarms and the surprises
And justify the darkness from which mortality arises
That wrath and tears which smother my sight
Is mine to shape and rage against the fright
And beneath such convictions, it shatters and burns
And meaning lies in the hope of The Return.

You don’t know what you want, you don’t know who you’ll be
You don’t even know the definition of “me”
Who are you to propose such lofty ambitions
When your every day has a million renditions
You haven’t untied Manhattan, you’ve yet to find your place
Between the towers and the mountains and the stampede prairie race
But you found something commensurate to the wonder of life
On the traveller’s map, scribbled in white:

“It’s in the union of souls from the oceans to the prairies
In a fifth floor lounge when they weren’t quite so wary
Or huddled together in crumbling brick-bound rooms
Laughing at something, or nothing, what matter but whom?
It’s in a cruise down Expo Boulevard, a symphony of light
In Greyhound buses full of homebound Seattlelites
And this is just the beginning, the prelude to a chapter
Tomorrow, we’ll be faster, stronger, closer to what we’re after

It’s in the laughter of the family table on a bitter winter evening.
It’s in the smiles and the freckles and the music of daydreaming.
It’s in late nights on Stephen Avenue or glittering Robson Street with friends.
It’s in the smell of rain and the clicking of a lens.
It’s in the twinkling of a city that never sleeps.
It’s in the quiet grandeur of discovery and mystique.
It’s in the words we speak and the stories we show
And the excitement and the wonder of the Great Unknown.”‘

– IV. Resurrection –

And so I leapt into the Night, leaving the Watchman behind
Because I have all I’ve ever wanted, and I’ll keep living for the Light.