A disaster, written in
old English script,
flourished with dreams
and colorful ink
when all that's needed
was pencil and paper to think,

"all that was wished for
was a lover, or maybe
just another drink."

Drowning in words,
senseless and pale pink
on a glass table of dust
and faculties on the brink
of breaking to shards
pieces - this disaster of a being
is me, needing more than sleep -

Vanilla lingering, scenting the bed,
fairy lights enchant dreary nights
dancing and still the dreamer sleepless,
restless - dream catcher by the door
guarding, keeping wily dreams in
little does the little dreamer know
resentment and nightmares are what
he is keeping, and demons
in the shadows, born of his mind
loud secretly living in his abode.

A demon who remembers
how white wings once felt,
how heavenly light caressed once,
how angelic song sounded,
in silent rebellion of
what this demon is now -
a war waged against himself
for a chance to find light,
and fly feathers once again.

A disaster,
A dreamer,
A demon,
all in one,
all from
one life -
Mine.