Demons

His whispers rise into the night,

The prayer a thread of sound for any God to pluck.

Soliciting help from any passing ear,

God, Human, or

Demon.

But no wraith takes advantage of his pleas,

The only phantoms are his own.

Cold steals over his heart

Though it remains summer.

And the shadows pull a drawn-out sigh,

Playing at weaving his voice

Into

A tapestry

Of a long-fading faith.

The words are no longer a vessel for worship,

Only habitual mantras.

Words that spill out into empty air

That no will can suppress.

Questions beg answers,

The child in him is asking,

But the conclusions are jaded and weary.

Faith is only what a person believes in,

Nothing here holds his dreams.

No ear lends notice to his words,

No God listens to the thread of his story,

He has no lover or friend to confide in.

His worst fear is to die alone,

Unheard by any but the

stifling summer air.