The demon that comes in the middle of night
isn’t the yellow one off to the right
but the man with the hands lifted up on the left.
He’s explaining why you are so often bereft.
It isn’t your fault, he assures you.
It’s fate. The solution? To find what inures you
to everything morbid and sad and morose.
What cures you of those? The right dose
of that palliative. You always had known this.
Does it matter the world won’t condone this?
And who is the fellow in yellow who hears
this expected advice with his skeptical ears
and the poignantly distant faint light in his eyes?
An ambassador, avatar, stand-in, disguise?
For what creature, what thing out of view?
Is this heaven or hell? Where are you?