The dead of night without dreams.
Sleepless, sitting in a darkened kitchen,
drinking piping hot coffee, looking out
on the street lit only by sickly streetlamps.
The demons run riot, kicking up a stir,
though I may look calm, and dead eyed stare,
out at the quiet world that gets to rest.
The demons always run riot, never let me be.
The coffee is hot, and harsh, and bitter,
and it keeps me connected to this world,
and it’s alkaline pleasures and hard touch.
A simple thing on a sleepless night.
A ritual to get through, as reverent in it’s
banal steps to make something I don’t need
as any religious ceremony, made for communion.
A ritual for one, who is not even a supplicant.
Maybe for a moment, just a moment, there is
quiet and the demons winding down to gnaw
on a pleasurable memory or a tender place so sacred.
Maybe I can distract them with some anger or bitterness.
Soon, the day begins, and I put on my smile and laugh
and go through it all again, as the demons ruin everything
and nothing sacred stays in my heart, and the devil beats
his wife on a sunny day, that is just a well lit rainstorm.