On Demons

The man of Gerasene’s 

Legions of demons

Were wild-eyed, wide-mawed,

Screaming marauders intent on breaking

His back and mauling his brains, brazenly

Brandishing pain, bent on

Torturous rack of the outstretching arms,

Attack of the body,

Wreck to the skull,

Harm to the whole

Man bashed against rocks –

Quiet come mine.

First by thread wind,

Now string, now twine,

With hushed words and kind,

Soothing my pride;

Pleasant the lines,

The placid comforts,

The lengthening lies

That bind.