He who imagines

She who sleeps,

Across the midnight wall,

He sinks.

Down through her roof

And past the ceiling

Into her head

Where she’s busy dreaming

Up a world of fantastic fiction

The mind’s own eye, her sole restriction.

She lives a life of pain each day.

A shattered doll, wasting away.

In a drape of flesh so fitting and fine

With hair in curls, and eyes so kind…

There she sees him all in black

With wings like velvet

And skin like sand,

Before she speaks, she’s in his hands.

And they’re spreading out like creeping vines

Back out across the midnight line

And as the stars are beginning to fade

Like Icarus, his wings are made

Of only wax and feathers glued

So though flying as one,

They fall as two.

The dreamer now crashes back down through her roof.

The demon of course, is now drowning in proof

That the only life worth living

Is a life led in truth…