So now I hide, in plain sight of a hive,
Of my own demons, who have no idea that I'm inside.
And as I watch them, I become a scribe,
Documenting the pain that they hold,
Telling the stories of each demon that's mine.
As they talk, the fire they surround starts to dance,
Unfolding the past, creating a trance that would last five hours,
Sometimes maybe ten,
But as it's told,
When this happens, time doesn't spin.
But risks are taken without the fear of a thing,
Running from their own pain,
That they are suffering from day after day.
But once their story is told,
The pain they hold finally begins to release and float away
Making them feel free.
Free of all their own demons,
And all the things they don't want you to see.
