This one pretty much wrote itself. Who is this? A sentry, a guardian, a gatekeeper? Or perhaps just a plain, old observer? This poem speaks of suffering.
Extract from "Atop the Hill"
"I see much from my place atop the hill
Harried mothers squawking
Old men numb with lonelinessLaced lovers convinced of privacy."
Afterthoughts for "Atop the Hill"
I'm a voyeur. I say that with no embarrassment. If I could have a superpower, being invisible would be it,
no question. I'm fascinated by human behavior; observing people and seeing how much story gets told
without a lot of dialogue, and how much our brain fills in.
Of the two sisters one is always the watcher, one the dancer.