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 mere mortals could endure,
When caught between
These ever enclosing
Twins of torment.

Little-child prayers
Once softened
The harsh darkness of night.
But now
Not even the best stuffed feather pillow
Is easy against the trapped head
That can hear
Through a trapdoor
What goes on in the attic
And feel fires
Ready to roast a body,
Anyone,
Starting at the toes.

Wanting to make peace
Brings no rewards.
Since peace remains impossible
As hammers are wielded and swung
Overhead and over all
That were quiet spaces
Where now stand nails ready
To be pounded in,
Removed,
Pounded in again,
As sparks fly
And rise to a roaring blaze,
Which, with timing,
And trickery,
Could be aimed at the attic
Where not even devils may escape
And the fires,
At last,
Rewardingly,
Tiredly,
Burn themselves
Out of wherever
I await sleep.