Conversations With The Devil
Our human capacity for understanding evil as a subject is
but excuse for that which lies within us.
And my imagination seemed to transpire
the authenticity only lent credibility
to your vile nature. A plague that descends
though it were a death-mist. Yet in
even the darkest places- I had not imagined
that death could tease the olfactory- so sweet
'Is this how you imagined you would end up? '
Your answer, ever so eloquent and malevolent:
'This is merely a means to an end'
Your arrogance, a bitter gall that clung
to the back of my esophagus- in fear
It is though you enjoyed this, a faded
existence riddled with your degradation
Still so, your presence clung to my being
and I feared that your melancholy seeping in
'What could you possibly think you could do? '
A role-reversal to which I rebut- yet your smirk
knows that it's inevitable.
And the peace crumbled from my heart
as the anger drummed six hundred threescore and six
I despised your existence. I tasteless brew that
quenched only the hellfire before it was bellowed
and surrounded us. The smog now heavy obscuring
the air and obscured you from view. I breathed.
And I smirked a malevolent picture.
My conversations with the evil that was myself-
embodied and realised.
Marcellino Carlo's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Conversations With The Devil by Marcellino Carlo )
Poem of the Day
- 04 Tongues Made Of Glass, Shaun Shane
- Daffodils, William Wordsworth
- If, Rudyard Kipling
- I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelou
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- Invictus, William Ernest Henley
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- Blackberry-Picking, Seamus Heaney
- Disabled, Wilfred Owen
- The Solitary Reaper, William Wordsworth
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
- Heather Burns
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(13 September 1916 – 23 November 1990)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)