At night
if I allow the swirls of thought
to spin
the demons come.
They are not real
but they have claws
They are not real.
They are echoes in the tin can
that holds my brain
The good is
as plentiful as the bad.
Perhaps both are fictional
but, on some days
the clouds wisp
like smoke in the river
and the light strikes gold
on the leading edges
and I can see it
When the sun rises
does it push out the dark?
Or does the dark merely exit
allowing
presence to fill
absence
On the river after the dark
has gone, for awhile,
the grebe plumbs the depths
I want to choose
the light and let it grow
but, but, but
all these spun demons
have my attention
like a cat by the balls
I scream and turn
to rend throats
It hurts to be held by demons
Do you think I will
conclude drawing for you
some colorful truth?
I have nothing
and nothing has
my tin can in its claw
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