Watchers, watchers
in the deep, deep wood
making their first judgments
in the places they have stood.
Murmurs, whispers
and a babbling old brook
with the watchers all around me
everywhere that I can look.
Wisdom, warning
and the scrutiny of time
I am cautious with my foresight
to avoid the simple crime.
Silence, healing
in the deep, deep wood
reconnecting with our origins
as if it were for good.
Normal, morals
have no purpose here at all
for everything is settled
like the leaves that never fall.
Tranquil, stressful
as I try to make my way
I talk aloud under the clouds
improvising lines to say.
Watchers, watchers
made of deep, deep wood
I make my first impression
near the places they have stood.
Praying, playing
in the realm of make believe
so vividly I hear the words
of voices I conceive.
Crazy, foolish
are the labels I would land
by a race of living creatures
that might never understand.
Quiet, feeling
in the deep, deep wood
and the watchers keep their eyes on me
as if I understood.
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