The Watcher, Deuce. / by The Black Lex Luthor

Watching the days like a maze, twisting at 90 degree angles, sharply changing my outlook and preparing me to prepare for adaptation, makes it hard to get used to being anything anyone wants, when I want someone to understand the real me. I watch it happen, standing on the outskirts of self, surveying the soul-landscape and I am unsure but thankful and proud and happy. I am the ghost of my true-self. I am the harbinger of unfortunate beauty. I am the height of the stars and the width of the cosmos.

I hold the essence of what it is to be: I am my own worst enemy.

Watching carefully, the charismatic political vampires perched, admiring the ignorance of the masses with mirth, my shadow falls on that which is cursed: a mind not aware of its worth.

Sell to me your backwashed gossip, stench-ridden lies propped on leaning tables like art. You would hang it on a wall, a diseased plaque looking like a mirror for the world's wasted youth, a haggard beast of a man with one tooth.

Watch this fall away, knowledge, the Lord says it will decay from minds first, so recall no riddles till laughter bursts, keep your hands in your own pocket and out of her purse.

I hold the essence of what can be known: your body is a shell and you are alone.

Watching what you will spin, your regrets, your mistakes that seethe again, reminding you that you should not be reminded and let the past be the end.

I am the Watcher.