In a dream I had,
a winged demon
plagued our house
night after night.

We saw it
high above us coming,
black wings
like chainsaw blades
extended, it screamed
as it slavered in
to the garden from
between the moon
and gothic clouds,
legs the colour of
peeled flesh
and half-bent like muscles
sewn on backwards.

After the first
hellish night, you went
out to the garden
and waited for it
on a chair, with a book
and when it landed
in front of you, ready
to rip us all apart,
you read it a horror story,
Frankenstein, Dracula,
another night it was
Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.

Every night then, you
went out and filled
its head with horrors
enough to feed it.

At ‘The End’ it would
lift silently, back
to the ink-stained depths
of the sky and every
night you read, knowing
that there would never be
enough stories
to save us forever.