If the raindrops are from heaven
From where else would the dewdrops be
But hell?
We tuck in the little children, crooning lullabies and stories to sooth them.
We flip all our switches, to hide what we do not wish to see.
We lock all our doors.

To whom are we locking them?
Murderers and crooks?
Surely not, for they too lock their doors to what truly awakens with the dark.

With the moon rise the devils of the earth.
With steps as light as feathers they scamper about the darkened streets of dusk;
All the same familiar roads, yet poles apart when coated in the thick, dark molasses of night.
These purgatorial demons run like wildfire throughout the streets, forests, and yards of the earth
Searching for a way back
To their home.

When they reach the soft earth,
They dig.
Thousands of holes with their calloused clawed hands,
Worn and weathered from countless nights of fruitless labor.
Yet with fervor they dig
Until they reach that unbreakable barricade
That keeps these souls, not nearly pure enough for heaven,
And too purely evil for hell itself
From breaching its barrier.

Once these nocturnal fiends of earth discover their refusal once more,
They fill the holes which they have dug.
And while they fill, they weep.
With countless tears of anger and sorrow they lament their useless existence.
These monsters, dismissed by even Satan, pat down the earth, the lawns,
And at the same time douse them
With tears of grief and envy that mirror their color.

Begrudgingly, they retreat.
And hide from sight,
And too, from the light of morning.

And then,
The world awakes
To sunshine
And to dewdrops.