The Watcher Poem by paul barnacle

HONOUR DONE

“Touché, blood has been drawn gentlemen, put down your swords.”
“Honour has been served.”
“Now we retire to the claret.”
“No! We continue, till we know, who is the one, the one and only.”
“I agree! To the end.”

Death set taken back by this unexpectedly interesting twist, about to be played in front of him. They were really prepared not to just prance and pose but to complete this madrigal. How delightful.

Cockfighting, bear biting. Ah! The good old days of Rome. When so much blood flowed, rivers of sweet conflict.

“Then if you are both agreed, fight on gentlemen.”
Such futile passion, exquisite!

However, even this drama paled against his personal favourite. Personal deception, twisted emotions, breaking hearts.
Pain that rots the soul. Slowly eats away, every moment of every day. The “Golden Fleece” of human misery.

Too many weaklings prepared to forgive and forget, turn the other cheek or worse still bow down to religious quackery.

One single tear, solitary, which falls unheard, unseen, was so much more, more satisfying than fields full of martyrs slit throats.

Lovers split asunder, pathetically wailing, “I’m so sorry.” Thinking these words would savage their lives. But for now this tableau would have to surface. Most of the crowd had dispersed, unwilling to witness true gore.

Ha! Willing to eat the beast but not watch it butchered, he thought.

Eventually death became bored and switched channels. He could catch up later, watch the highlights, or check the result on teletext.

“Ah! What have we here? ”
“A contemplative suicide.”
“That’s better, real fun.”
Don’t make a quick decision, dwell on it my dear. Let it marinade. It will be tastier then.”
“Yes, think of your loved ones.”