A Fourth Watch

It was a fourth watch, I surmise,
when a man that looked old and wise(
with melancholy tired eyes,
countenance his filled with lines:
those ruts that had been left as signs
by the wheels of time,
vice and crime
that never ever fell in line—
no, it never did align—
with his heart and soul benign.
Yet with an action base,
how he begrimed his coming days!
In one fell swoop his soul sullied.
Now his heart can’t help but bleed.
Bulky weight of conscience bears
down on him. He would it were
that his compunction weren’t ill timed.)
woke up with a start, his body drenched, and a disturbed mind.

Shapes of darkness hover close
demanding him of what he owes.
Justice from which once he fled
stop it shall not till he’s paid.
Though now too late it’s been to pay
crowd nearer they, his heart to weigh
against a feather light as day.
Like cigarette smoke, with soot is painted,
not his lungs, but heart his tainted
and rendered empty pages which else
would be filled with songs and tales
of love—
(that which against all avails).

No family, friend or love to care:
he pushed them all out of his fear;
Nor foe has he except his self,
who, lonely, further without help
pushes, gets pushed deep down the sea; so damned he is in misery.

No time is apter than these hours—
when once had saved, the Lamb of ours,
a drowning man in face of storm—
a strange miracle to perform.

As swift as levin Lamb could rout
these shapes—
(his orders for they couldn’t flout).
But first forgive himself he must;
put in god all of his trust,

but neither Job nor Faust mimics he;
neither god nor devil trusts he;
made for madness, madness seeks he
for sanity is, he believes, for simpler minds and not for him.