The Train Station

By: Nathan Fletcher

They do not come with snarling teeth,

Nor cloaked in threat that lies beneath.

They knock as friends with gentle grace,

A saint’s soft voice, an angel’s face.

They wear no chains, they bear no knives,

But come to steal our peace, our lives.

They find the cracks where trust is blind,

And plant their poison in the mind.

We weren't born with wiser eyes,

To see through masks, to cut through lies.

We learn to sense the shift, the quiet wrong,

The voice too sweet, the smile too long.

For who would let a serpent in,

To strike his house, to bleed his kin?

No man of strength, no soul aware,

Would bow to threats dressed up as care.

And know this truth, these foes run deep,

Not just the thrones, or wolves who creep.

Not merely men or tribal kings,

But darker, older, unseen things.

Their war is not of sword and land,

But whispers death with ghostly hands.

A war of will, of soul, of light

Where what is wrong now claims it’s right.

So be the fire that does not yield,

A bloody blade… unbent…a hardened shield.

No quarter given, none to spare

A lion roaring, standing bare.

Let your resolve strike cold and true,

A man who knows what he must do.

This is no game, no tale to tell

Stand guard, stand firm, defend your garden well.

Do not take this lightly,

Your Watchman's Oath

For even the enemy wears a smile.