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.
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