The demon-poet

The demon-poet sits on the doorstep rubbing his hands.
The crop was good, the pain still here,
tears flowing with no end in sight.

Inside, the stammer of a childish voice
still hoarse from screaming "mercy, please!"
from begging you to stop.

The demon-poet grins exuberantly,
delight is his and his is the reward,
for waiting patiently to be unleashed.

The demon-poet roars with laughter;
but now he suddenly begins to quake
for there's a light somewhere, barely a glimmer
approaching quickly, now a bright white flame,
not fire of passion, of desire, or anger,
but calm and peaceful light of day.