Poem.

For there you are,
hurt, lonely, sad
crying in the night,
reaching to the stars,
for a rescue, a hope, a dream
something worth redeeming.
A whistful demon stands nearby,
a creature who knows torment,
who can smell and hear it,
eminating in waves outward
from your lonely spot in the street.
Demon is helpless to help,
but It sympathetically cries with you,
It wants to help you so ever badly,
wishing It were Angel, not Demon,
so that It could scoop you up in Its arms,
to hold and comfort you,
to smile light and feed you,
to care for you and set you free.
But, alas, the Demon knows
that It will never, ever have
that kind of power to squander
for if It does find it, Demon will use it first,
and It knows that such is the reality of things.
So Demon turns away in lament,
for both you and It, useless as ever,
and hopes that one day you get what you want.