The Watchman’s Judgement

The watchman’s electronic eyes were taken into focus

 on the man and woman sitting outside the café

 engaged in animated conversation,  

drinking coffee under a full white moon  

 The Watcher smiled at the moon,

 As he observed the couple carefully

 Their energy boiling, fragrant like a stew

 She talked about the books she read

like Rumi: Bridge to the soul

The Scarlet Pimpernel

Fair Maiden

The Great Train Robbery 

 Then the Watchman saw the man’s thoughts   

Clear as the bottom of a flowing crystal stream

 the man waxed silent; 

 though she never ran short of words,   

  To the man, she became a verbose titillation  

  though he tried hard to censor his carnal ambitions

 bind them to decency, his dark nature held sway,    

  the fury of passion was kindled in his blood,  

 ripening his inclination towards mischief 

 taking him down the forbidden path   

 where vice was an irresistible addictive crime

in the bedroom of his mind

 breathing like an entity; sealing his condemnation

 as the Watchman drew closer, imperceptible

in the twinkling of an electronic eye,

 he was close enough to touch their rose peddle skin

taste the stirring in the man’s blood, and her sweet naiveté  

 as the fury of lust gained strength in the man    

 visions of entering her Mahogany places were embraced

  sublime friction; became his only ambition   

  inside her velvet walls of paralyzing bliss,

  freely he slowly entered, and moved with comfort         

 her pink fingernails, teasing, touching without contact

inspiring his momentum more rapid   

 their naked bodies covered with moisture,  

 drained and unashamed, placid

under the cover of night shades; cooling in the afterglow.   

While she continued speaking, like a flowing, serenading flute;

innocent, unknowing

 in the shadows, the Watchman waited for his opportunity

biting his nails with blood lust hunger

as if listening to a symphony; senses delighted by their thoughts

 when suddenly his hand moved like a conductor’s baton

 the sound of his blade unsheathing stilled the night   

 he was hell bent on the judgement, unmixed with mercy