I am sleeping in the attic

With some pillows beside

And the roaming darkness is brooding

On the skylights above


It isn’t the starry night that Van Gogh had it painted

But the soot of black smashing in the glass

That the meadows will make-believe

Looking up, breathing and sighing


I can hear the demons below the floor

That knocks the eggs I kept

It was for their well-being

And some gestures of faith


The dreams are interrupted with the sullen reminder

As the straws are binding my feet

As if a caress is waiting in winsome thought

Or is it the demon below the floor


It is not even a slumber, or a careless thought

That the cat on the mattress whines

The rug is sliding, the whispers rise to wallow

The astute is preparing to dance

Demons below the floor

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