The Watcher
Looking out from far behind.
Feeling every blast.
Viewing features of the beaches in a war long past.
One survior still alive observing from his chair.
Living distant, gazing in, the
battle rages there.
Peering through the rain of time,
every salty pint.
The final witness of the living graveyard and the fight.
One more glimpse upon the sky, the sky in mind alone.
One more heartbeat, one more breath,
sitting calm at home.
Some say that histories are libraries of flesh.
Some say that histories are tales made out of bones.
Final watcher close your eyes,
time to see your friends.
Time to mark your name upon the book that never ends.
Time to take that final swig of oxygen so cold.
Soon you won't be history.
Soon you won't be old.
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