We all carry our own demons:
chimeras that stalk
the gothic halls
of our subconscious,
awaiting the perfect moment
to leap,
slavering,
into reality.
The burden can be onerous,
and many of us stumble,
never to regain
full cognisance.
Others live
with eyes like haunted lighthouses,
peopled by echoes
of demonic laughter,
and shrieks of sadistic joy.
If we can embrace these terrible tenants,
these monsters in our closets,
and talk with them,
here in the sun,
we begin to see them for what they are:
small demons
that did no lasting harm;
dusty, stick-drawing demons,
who made a pretence of being evil;
laughable demons from the trunk of life,
mere dress-up clothes
from an older,
and darker,
day.