Dementia (Poetry)

By night, she hides — a creature born of shadows,
her baleful scowl would turn a heart to stone;
her demon squats, secure in his possession,
consuming every crazy scrap he’s thrown.

She mutters strings of curses, vile with loathing,
rakes her flesh and rents its mottled skin,
hatred hissing through her endless mantra
to exorcise old evils lodged within.

By day, she sits in sunlight — haunts the garden,
her face serene, her gaze fixed like she sees
another world — and there, on far horizons,
her mind’s at rest and whispering to trees.

The gloaming — and she shudders, frowns with anguish
to feel the daylight fade and warmth depart,
blind terror grips her, dreading dusk descending,
she huddles, counts the beating of her heart.

The white coats come — bright angels, voices soothing,
to guide her over daisied seas of lawn —
the Devil’s close behind but they can’t see him,
the needle shines — she floats and prays for dawn.