He thinks himself the night watchmen, on a lonely, dark guard tower,
looking into the night for the evil things that he says are coming for us.
In his room, looking at a glowing screen, searching through the air,
looking for secret codes, he says he sees it all.
He says he’ll be the first to see the Son of Man coming in the clouds.
I sit in my room, and I once was like him, a paladin of some renown.
But the evil is not out there, in the dark and in the night, coming for us.
The evil is here, in our hearts and brains and our fists, in our very flesh.
The codes are snaps in synapses, and the mind makes math of fear and loss.
The Son of Man is not coming in the clouds, only rain, rain, rain, that will never clean us.
I write her into existence, this itch in my brain, this hope in my heart.
A woman, a meandering and flawed angel, sneaking smokes in an alley.
One who held onto the code of love even as the color drained from her eyes.
I write her into existence, with fierce eyes and prideful pout, and so much rage.
The Son of Man is not in the clouds, but I need a dream, and someone to listen.