Demons on the Parapet

Demons on the parapet.
Eyes of the dead.
Battling the mind fuck
from all the books that you have read

Splitting into balls, and beads, and bottle caps
you fear the End of Times.
Though it’s felt just around just around the corner
since the dawn of human kind.

And all the voices
from all the years
scuttle round your head
as you grope for child’s thoughts
lost in what they’ve said.

So cellophane your lips and teeth.
Plastic wrap your brow.
For sandwich bags don’t hurt mirrors
that are smudged and brown

Whisper, dear, it’s alright,
there’s no need to prescribe,
Merely have a heartbeat
and promise you're alive.