Walk the earth in quiet solitude, there are voices,

those that speak to existence,

a near presence suggests a listening anticipation,

our lives at the bequest of their provision.

 

When looking upon a man whose soul is shadowed

in a melancholy framework,

a safe existence where no one may interfere,

thus the demon perhaps is never exposed.

 

Then glance upon her, scrambling for evidence

a reason to exist, a purpose, a motive,

yet beaten down on every avenue of hope or faith,

we see the demon is lurking in a cowardice of vanity.

 

Last night she spoke of the effort to rise,

when trampled upon by callous external motive,

we all cry out loud if we hurt, the demon sees,

instead she might weep in a well covered mask.

 

We do have these spiritual meccas we call our home,

worship the very ground we stand upon,

holding court with their eyes red embers

that can be extinguished yet a breeze is always near.

 

Oh, to know clearly how to come to face that fearful entity

one separates the strong from the weak, an eternal paucity.