The Demon by M.P. Strayer

Three a.m. on jackal feet the demon steals

through the snowflake shards of my shattered dreams…

Three a.m. awake and the demon has me in its mitts.

The promise of a new day never seems quite so distant

as it does at three a.m., alone and terrified in a little room,

teeth clenching, sweat popping, in a web of piss-stained streetlight…

The demon flexes its clammy claws,

the demon drapes me with hot frog’s flesh,

the demon bares a black-fanged grin

and with whiskey breath hisses in my ear:

Not good enough….

Three a.m. in the mitts of the demon.

Watching the clock as it hisses:

This night will never end.