I Speak Of The Devil Poem by Mark Heathcote

I speak of an evil-chaplain
relishing every mean crime or sin.
How he's judgemental.
How he corrupts the innocent-the-poor.
I speak of an ever-tightening capstan.
A reeling web of demonic deceit
I speak of his whims.
His body's heat
how he prayed on his victim's urges,
how he corrupted the pure
as they learned to endure
his never-ending satanic hymns.
This fiend, without a heart
this man who'd show up just after dark
he knew all he needed to do was let your ego
and your pride fly, and you'd go blind to all
and you would fall under his control
like Icarus flying too close to the sun
because man is dumb, living on impulses
like Eros, a slave of love and desire
a fool for a pyre wants to die without a prayer.