I find myself brought to waking,
Not by the grievance of the sun,
But by pressure and a presence,
While the rooms scent becomes sulphur,
An unsettling presence,
Pushing down on my ribs like a boulder,
Not enough to terminally suffocate,
But enough to torture all the same,
A petite form on my chest with the intangible weight of hell,
I am held in a form of wakeful stasis,
Forced to lock eyes with this imp,
Twin orbs of magma and malice,
It grins at its own cruel game,
Hissing in tongues,
Guffawing at each breath I strain outward,
This is no night terror I tell you,
No hallucination,
But a very real and very spiteful nightly ritual,
By a demon of sleep.
