this is the ire
of the ire
of night
where we find
no, we meet with,
gladly- our demons,
for they – our ours
no reason, we choose them,
we surely do,
invite them,
and as we choose to
fight them
or have a drink with them
or a conversation
at the bar
or the backyard
behind the barn,
for-
that is what we are
individual beings
thrown into this boiling ocean,
as babes,
all commotion and screaming
facades and screens remaining
until we come into our own,
even off stage we are on-
we carry on in this dream,
a performance-
and in those rare moments become us (for how long?)