ceaseless watcher, behold your triumph,
apathetic eyes prying into weary flesh,
the beholding, isn't it an accurate name?
you have seized what little I had left.

and as I step onto the street,
I feel them stare into my every thought,
every dark impulse, every light deceit,
all this and more finally, horribly caught.

what else does a man have except his mind?
what can he depend on but privacy in contemplation?
the recorder clicks on, I hear the tape start to wind,
even now you record my damnation.

watching, watching, always watching,
from the eyes of the birds, from cameras mounted high,
I have never known such existential pain,
than to lose the little solitude I prized in my life.

and I have never felt such loathing,
and I have never felt such fear,
I cast my thoughts away, unknowing,
and it is with vile exultation you hear.