I thought the demon had left,
gone, taken a holiday.
Asleep under a soothing chemical blanket,
I was deceived.
I used to dance with him near the cliffs.
I could never be sure when our dance would pull us to the edge.
Looking there, over the edge, it always seemed a matter of flight or fight.
Fight the urge to sadness and hurl over the precipice,
or fly laughing at the maelstrom below.
When flight was taken
a view to the beauty of the chaos below.
When diving to the waters in turmoil,
becoming one with them, foundering and sliding below the surface.
The demon has been denied for many months now.
There has been no dancing, no flying no diving.
Impatient, emergent, unrelenting. He pressures with cascading thought.
“You are back!” I say, standing at the edge. “Yes.” He smiles.
“Let us join the dance once again. Flying comes later.”