The Devil walks at dusk, they say,
in boots of bone and ash and clay,
his tongue a serpent, slick with lies,
his smile the slit in dying skies.
He knocks with silence at the door
where sinners prayed, but prayed no more.
His shadow creeps through keyhole thin,
and every breath invites him in.
His cloak is stitched from vows unkept,
from lullabies the dead ones wept,
and in his eyes, twin lantern gleams
lit not by stars, but strangled dreams.
He speaks in rhymes that rot the air,
a lull of doom, a cursed prayer.
Each word, a drip of pitch and pain,
each pause, a chain, each sigh, a chain.
He knows the taste of holy bread,
he’s kissed the lips of prophets dead.
He danced with Joan, he bathed in flame,
and whispered low God’s secret name.
He doesn’t laugh, he only grins
at poets drunk on mortal sins,
and when they bleed their truths in verse,
he ***** them dry, a reverent curse.
So write, dear soul, with fevered quill,
he waits beyond the windowsill.
He'll take your pen, your pulse, your breath,
and love you best in final death.
For you are ink, and he is thirst,
and Hell is where the poets burst.
Jan 30
Jan 30, 2026 at 8:21 PM UTC
On a morning of sunsets,
I plea for silence.
The air around me is screaming,
The sorrows of old violence.
The earth spins on a tilt,
And so do I.
A shivering twirl,
My mind, cock-eyed.
In the bleeding form of tomorrow,
Who am I to speak?
I long for yesterdays,
When the pain reached its peak.
In theory, I am a butterfly,
Dramatised change in flight.
In reality, I am a moth,
At one with the night.
Jan 28
Jan 28, 2026 at 3:44 PM UTC
There's a garden at the back of my throat,
And it blooms whenever I lie.
And I lie awake every summer,
Waiting for the flowers to die.
There are pieces of me sprawled on the floor,
The twisted vines etching my shadow.
I am one, and none, and all over,
Passing through time like a window.
Weeding takes its toll on my flesh,
I can feel it settle under my skin.
But I get melancholic without the pain,
It's itching and curling within.
There's an eclipse upon the roots,
A purge of the dirt on my soul.
The sunshine outlived by the drama,
The grime, the filth, the lack of control.
Delusions live deep, I know this is true,
But I am the gardener of this world that I grew,
It is wild and demanding and overgrown,
And I creep around a seed that has not yet been sown.
Jan 25
Jan 25, 2026 at 1:35 PM UTC