The Merlin

I see him there;
casually mixed with
the common trends of
everyday people, he
is not dressed as though
his mind leaps with
ancient mysticism, there are no
arcane springs
jetting out from
his cuffs

He, in turn, seems as oblivious
as the rest of them
though I know better, for I have
his lesser,
once before. A pity, they
don’t realize
in whose presence they stand

For, it was nights ago
I watched him
hat, and cloak, and beard
and all, arranging,
with ritual practice, strange
oddments, and artifacts
about his weathered table,
then all at once
he disappeared, his body remained
I could see quite plainly
that in his head
he was wandering (someplace
unknown to me), then
with writing utensil in hand
before candle flame,
and dark
he wrote from within
that place, that
inner madness, I never knew what,
for I did not dare disturb him

eventually, and
with great exhaustion,
he returned, and
his eyes found pleasure
in what he’d done
,and laughed.

© Emerys Watchel, 2015 All rights reserved.



there is something filthy about
all of this
clean, efficient
sweep it,
scoop it,
scrape it all and brick it up
build with it, magnificent
sand castles,
glass vessels,
water filled carbon life waiting to
all to ashes, all with time
all the root and rock with time
scrub it all clean, grind it all
clean, and scented with proteins
extracted from other organics

burning their fat to keep
from fumbling in the dark,

there is a perfection to it
as well, a quality,
in the senselessness
of it all.

© Emerys Watchel, 2015 All rights reserved.