Softly drift away before the twelfth hour strikes
For it’s then that the demons pick their first of many fights
That last through the blackness, in you implanted lair
Of secret storms silent, conducted all in the upstairs
A stab in the dark – behind a feeble frame
Is the guesswork of the legion driving all insane
Normalcy becoming the greatest tool and lie
The device in which they all subtly hide behind.
The devil inside breathless, clawing his way out
In form of simple silence without yell nor without shout
False form of joy furnishes a simple home
Lonely he finds space for poison to freely roam
With admittance he lives on, nest built grander in the night
His eggs all fallen comrades, nothing left alive
Only the rotten smell known as ‘what could have been’
When child’s eraser traded for ever-permanent pen.