The Imp Ostor

The Imp sat atop the dresser, unmoving, in the corner of the room, I waited, pen in hand. No sound did he make, nor his locus improving, as his bloodshot eyes, my attention, they demand. In days slipped past, he spoke in lulled timbre, for years he abated the fears that I had, his mind so subtle, his thoughts so limber, but through each day my questions he forbad. I wrote each word, every syllable, every notion, spoken dark or tender, whether thou or thine. He laid before me his songs of emotion and I stole each one and made them all mine. In his voice, I claimed, all of his treasures, without a thought he'd discover, in time. Yet, now he speaks with words always measured, and burning glares that scream of my crime. Does he know I've used him to privilege my psyche? Does he know how his rhymes have impassioned my soul? Would he care if I offered to proffer my ego, or pay, with my heart, this immeasurable toll. “Living In The Dark ,“ so easy he spoke this, while together we lived each verse, he and I. Darkness foreboding, for he, was in bliss, but for me pure terror as his words I decry. He laughed at my fear and smiled with derision as my name I placed at the end with the date. His eye slowly narrowed as if changing his decision but I watched as the dark made these feelings abate. I gather before me his sonnet's solemn lines, He allows me to name it,"Fire," seems right, as his bitterness taunts me with each phrase he entwines leaving visions of me in the sallow dim light. I live in his blindness through eyes of midnight. The coals of his vision, burning embers of fright, but the words he has spoken I endeavor to requite for they linger and fill me with horrendous delight. Each syllable I have written, each turn of a phrase, I owe to this Imp as he glares from the dresser but silence, now, while he sits in the shadows, how I wish again to become his confessor. 10/07/2020