Devils

A poem

Photo by Ksenia Chernaya

I can’t see,
The devils within me,
As rotten as the tree,
Fallen like a dream,
Caramel or cream?
I can’t see.

They can’t talk,
But they should,
They can walk,
And they do,
From my core to brain,
Like an organic train.

They can’t talk, I sense,
But they cajole my essence,
With tempting verses,
Now, what should I do?
Should I listen to them,
Or call the nurses?

There are many,
Not all are chaos,
Some are good to have,
If not anything else,
They are my bridge,
Between all flashy and drab.