Perhaps you will never see her

She will always be there, but you'll never know when.

It may be on a dingy street corner in the dark of the night

As she leans wistfully against the filthy wall of a graffitied building

Her eyes closed and head upturned as though she is basking in the summer sun.

Or with slit pupil eyes through the gaping window of a store,

Her watchful glowing stare pierces your soul.

Or lounging in the rigid chairs of a hospital waiting room as though it was a throne

Half lidded eyes drifting about the room with languid movements.

No matter where you find her, it is always when you need it most.

 

Perhaps she was once a Goddess

Her power soft and kind

Her love a gentle caress to the Earth.

But now she is forgotten to the world

Her temples are in ruins

Flowers that once adorned her hair wilted and weak.

Forgotten, yet not powerless

She will protect her own.

 

Perhaps she once had a name,

It would slip from the lips of her followers

Like the soft breeze of a summer's day against your cheek.

A tender name that has long since been lost to time.

Now, most who see her simply call her the Watcher.

 

Perhaps in olden times, women would pray to her for fertility or luck

She was gracious and loving. 

And she would watch

Waiting to protect her children. 

But now she is forgotten and angered.

Angered at the way her children are treated, their blood that is spilled

The fear that seeps into their bones 

They walk with hunched shoulders, eyes fixed to the ground

The keys gripped tight between their fingers for some semblance of protection.

Now she no longer waits to protect her children.

 

Perhaps within the millenniums that she was forgotten she changed

Her appearance shifting from unassuming and soft

To strength and fangs that lust for blood

Her hands gained calluses becoming rough and sturdy

Hair now adorned with teeth rather than flowers.

 

Perhaps she changed, became more vicious

Her eyes, though, they still hold true.

The same pensive eyes with the slits down the center

Golden knowing eyes that stare into your soul

The eyes that hold the pain of her children.

 

Perhaps she watches over the women who walk alone at night

The young children who flinch at sudden movements

Those who live in fear of the pounding of footsteps accompanying their own

Those who scream, for they know pain

Those who know the despair of being abandoned by their fellow humans. 

 

Perhaps you will never see her

I hope you never have to.

Yet if you do look into her golden eyes, know that you are safe

Protected.

And walk away from the screams of those that would harm you

Walk away, and perhaps you will never see her again.

 

Perhaps you will never meet the Watcher on a street corner or through a window

But she will always watch over you.