There are devils in the attic,
A fire burns below,
And nothing can get between
With enough rain or holy water
To put either evil out.
There were times when
Enough sleep would make
The confrontation entertaining.
But it’s never easy
When whatever is above
Or below
Is more vicious
Than a mere mortal could endure,
When caught between
These ever enclosing
Twins of torment.
Little-child prayers
Once softened
Night’s weighty darkness.
But now
Not even the finest feather pillow
Is easy against the trapped head
That can hear
Through a trapdoor
What goes on in the attic
And feel the fires
That remain ready to roast,
Starting at the toes.
Wanting to make peace
Brings no rewards.
Since peace remaining impossible
As hammers are wielded overhead
And over all
That were quiet spaces
Where now stand nails ready
To be pounded in
Removed
And pounded in again,
As sparks fly
And grow to a roaring blaze,
Which, with timing,
And the right trickery,
Could be aimed at the attic
Where not even devils may escape
And the fires,
Eventually,
Rewardingly,
Tiredly,
Burn themselves at last
Out of here.
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