The Devil’s Home
The sun lays September to rest,
my single tree quivers
against black canvas, frost steals my breath
and this night makes it hard to be a river.
My moon cannot gaze quick
enough in any direction, I stumble
over boulders, though these dormant feet stick,
one-side of heavy rubble.
Gentle, I offer, white whispers,
(and knuckles), as I lay my head to rest,
because, as he often does, the reaper
shreds nightly peace, to build a home in my chest!
Posted on October 2, 2013, in Poetry and tagged bad, Cold, Demon, evil, experience, God, good, journal, life, Nightmare, Poems, poetry, prayer, reflection, Religion, satan, sin, spiritual growth, spirituality, Winter. Bookmark the permalink. 18 Comments.