Warfare

A wight may be a righteous man,
And a beast a fortunate son.
Wicked beings may torment a soul
Of whom true righteousness had won.
For fortune's not the hallmark's brand
Upon the heart's red, burning coal,
Which marks a man for Godly things
Or raises him above the fold.

A righteous man had demon's sting
Which raised him above his soft bed.
The pangs of ill-wrought anguish rose
Him midair, anguished and in dread.
Yet this man is a righteous son
He had done no wrong thing untrue.
For demonic oppression, wot 
I, its source’s not always you.