Disciples Of The Devil Poem by Tor Magnor Solvang

A shadow walks, a whispered name,
Not always seen, but feels the same.
A smile can hide a cruel intent,
A helping hand, a trap is sent.

They wear our clothes, they speak our tongue,
Their wicked songs are sweetly sung.
They twist the truth, they plant the doubt,
And try to turn our hearts about

A silver tongue, a hollow vow,
They promise peace but start a row.
Their music echoes in the dark,
To steal away your inner spark.

They offer gold that turns to dust,
And trade your silver for their rust.
A blinding flash, a sudden glare,
Until you wake inside their snare.

They sit in halls of stone and grace,
And wear a solemn, pious face.
They write the laws, they hold the key,
But weave a cage for you and me.

But quiet eyes can see the thread,
Of where their crooked steps have led.
A steady mind will refuse the bait,
And leave the shadow at the gate.

But look beyond the painted face,
For kindness shines, and leaves a trace.
Where goodness grows, and love is true,
The Devil's touch can't see us through.