The Watchman
He would look over the pointed rooftops that sheltered the souls who found rest and comfort in his darkness, like being taking under his wing. And he would stare at the stars that shined only in is his presents, and feel a speck of importance. He looked at everything that he watched over, he fell into his own enjoyment of all that slept, unaware of his watchful eye. And felt pride for the creatures that would not let his darkness take over.
He was the cold, sharp wind that shuck the trees, that in the winter looked so much like his bony fingers.
He was the figure you swore you saw in the corner of your eye. He protected in his dark way.
You might think that he was cruel but no. And you might think he only enjoys his darkness.
But what he finds is the time he can not wait for, is the time he leaves. The tame he no longer watches. When his comforting presents is only a memory and the wish for the next night.
He longs for the moment when the Sun raises its sleepy head and wakes all the souls in their pointed rooftops, when the sky brightens, and clouds fill the blue background. When the sharp wind is no longer there. And all the darkness is swept away. Like dirt being swept under the rug.
The Watchman's Sun would light up the shadows, lit the unlit windows, ate the stars, and woke the sleeping souls.
For the watchman and his "Sun" couldn't love a more perfect routine.
