The devil is whispering
through white plaster,
pock-marked walls.
The window's eyes are watching
every movement of the
hardwood floors, sending out
dust.
A front door with four locks,
but one is broken.
A back down with four locks,
but never opened.
The devil can't get out,
the demons can't get in.
Waiting for the chance
for redemption,
riding on the back of a cockroach.
Close the French doors to the bedroom,
shut out the world,
bathed in darkness,
hidden,
secluded,
perfect
for one more day.