The Chameleon

My demon is a chameleon and
We are intimates of old.
This I have learned: his shades
Are monochrome.
Able to stalk the dark places
Within and without
Like a shadow adjusting itself to
The density of the fog.
Speaking in whispers, the croaks
Of the dead
He never coerces,
Merely hints, suggests what I
Could do if I simply let go,
Assume some animal shape and
Hunt the waiting dark together.

He is too proud to
Stay unknown so he doesn't
Mind if I write. For
Who would believe?

Even now he whispers
Of slaughter, the gift
Of the quietus, release. Still,
I close my ears, my mind, for I
Am not ready to make that final
Transformation.
Yet.