A Ritual For One

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.


Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s