Daemons

Daemons are little metaphors of ourselves;
a golden cervet shrieks and clings
to your fingers an island finch tugs
at the invisible thread that binds
the nonchalant cat who too silently
arches his back into a turtle shell
you conveniently slip in your pocket.

Do you not love the daemon of a child?
Porcupine ball of change; undeciding
quills filled with blood and inked
irredeemably to a fate, once sealed,
no longer remembers its little metaphors.

Now they be theme and tone and style,
essayant to the world. In your shadow
tread your daemon love, in what form
your light shall spare.

When you feel that shuddering warmth
of relief, your daemon hugs your back.
When tears quiver down your cheeks
in vain, your daemon caresses your face.
When you sleep in peace, or are weary
and lost, your daemon holds your dreams.

They become cataracts and tint;
visions and dreams, were they ever
so literally demons and screams?
Or perhaps, the voice of lucidity
at times which no longer matter.

Daemons are memories of our different selves,
always chasing what you might have been
and creating little metaphors for me.