The Demon

The demon entered late one night and boasted he got me. In bed I cowered filled with fright and hoping he would leave. "You'll never write again," he said, with dirty awful glee, "Your course is through, your muse is dead. No fame you shall achieve." A thousand prayers came to mind but none could I assert. "Your pleas can't help, for you're assigned, from High, for me to pester." But why? thought I. The fiend's reply will haunt my days on earth: "You let your gift too long to dry, it now will reek and fester." I woke and quaked, my nightmare gone, I thanked it wasn't true, And running to this desk I've done three days of naught but writing. One work is good, one sentence bad. I give each word its due, To keep the beast away I'm glad; I'll give it no inciting. All gifts are not our own alone. We owe the world our part. Like Adam back and bone, we hone and sow our grief for art.