The Owls by Charles Baudelaire

I’m being watched over
is it by wisdom or a loner
who follows me in the dark night of murmur
melancholious momentum
rolling faster than a spun election
for all the tumult and the tedium
still I believe in those Owl Eyes

looking within I exorcise
my right to be physical the sun getting up in the morning
isn’t as difficult as having to stare into the glare
of another day existentially un-aware
perched like a precarious truth-or-dare
while they wed up in pairs

The harder I climb the faster I fall down stairs