The demon squirms under your touch.
The chair that was once possessed
by someone (or was it “something”?)
that could not move on from
their, old, familiar comfort.

The demon squirms under your touch.
Under your index finger, your ring finger
and the finger of promises
(that are yet to be fulfilled)
that is stuck in their plump limps.

(These plump limps are not to be on the
Same wavelength as you- In fact,
These pretty lips have been forced
to utter mumbled words of
ambiguous desire for your sake.)

You lay the (perhaps trusted) demon
On the train tracks, hoping for it
To lavish in the indicator
of sweet, fresh death.
Of Endless Blood.

The train comes.
The conductor does not stop.
The passengers do not scream.
The train goes for the demon,
Seemingly Deliberate.

The demon- it opens its eyes,
continues to breathe.

Regardless of the fact that its
Existence was woven exclusively
Because of your sins-

The demon weeps.

-

He weeps for heaven as he does not belong in your head anymore.
(He is real. He is an outcast produced from / a Heaven that has abandoned him and / now- you too?)

The train keeps going .

You, the Troubled Human, board the train.
(You feel something heavily pull at your / nerves and now you contemplate your / actions in opposition to the court room in / your head.)

You leave the weeping demon (dream)
(You cannot understand if the demon  is a  / dream and had / nestled itself deep in your roots.)

From where you stand, you see snow on its eyelids. You force yourself to kneel inside the compartment.
(The gesture is no longer an ode to the / demon’s Creator, for the Creator has no / desire to listen in on humanly matters.)

You pray for the supposed antagonist that lays its body, bare and vulnerable, on aged and ***** tracks.

-

Existence breathing in & out.
Existence that soon will bloom into ruby blood.
It slides from your scalp to your legs and to
the soil that birthed you
(Mother Nature listens in, whether she is  / proud of you or not, / you have grown to not to care.)
Existence, it tunes in & out,
For people that live on the edge
Of Nirvana.

Drums that are held by a ribcage are coming to
a promised halt, to an exasperated outro.

The demon (the Dream, the Ego) dies.

No one squirms for anything these days.

- Eoz