Coffee With Demons

The knives are watching, waiting for their blood,

With hungry hands they search for lingering flesh.

Each dagger finds a home and stains the floor;

A patient victim sips his bitter life

And scratches melancholies ‘pon dead trees.

Each trunk there held a deity inside,

Then slewn by feats of better men than he.

The writer, creeping in his useless flesh—

He pulls his pen as if he pulls the Earth;

It siphons off his soul onto the page:

This God’s new face tattooed with inked ideas,

Ideas that called a thousand men before;

Though altered the perspective, nothing new.

But knew he not of greys of yesteryear,

For only his existed in his dome.

The melancholies fled upon each stab.

He felt the eyes and weight of whispered word.

A horde of haters mobs his mind and holds

A place in houses of his weary soul.

The serpent judgement slithers up his spine

And coils ‘round his brain, constricting thought.

One mistake, he knows, does not become

The man he is, but stands as grains of sand,

Eroded off the shore, into the sea

Of Cosmos and Her empty kin, The Void,

An ocean of pain from Pantheon’s Blood.

But knives know not the difference of the flesh,

For blood is blood to them and drips the same.

—

We satiate their hunger, quench their thirst;

Our bodies on the beaches float away.