Demonic you with mischief in your bones,
Sacred the pyres in which you were born,
Fire and brimstone
And chaos is your blood.

In Lilim you wrote
In a black book of ashes,
To torture the souls
As you destroy your own
Unraveling secrets and pain in the process,
Mitigating it lightly, then
Swimming with the dark.

Oh, Demon,
A promise I made you
A century ago.

Oh, Daughter of Lilith,
All the wars in your eyes
And battlefields in your blood
Made you into a demon
Much better and strong.

Oh, Child,
Your destiny is to serve Beelzebub,
The Prince of all Demons,
His kingdom, his laws,
And it's hard to survive with the Devil in tow,
But you, Little Hellion,
Will cut his wings off.

So go,
Give them hell, Kid,
'Cause there they belong.
Their sins feed the fires as flesh turn to smoke,
And screams turn to ashes
As you torture them all.

In the pyres of Hell,
Little Hellion,
Be strong.

today she is blue
and purple and green
and she wears glitter
beneath her skin

she comes close
only to run away
closer! to run away
again

but i will sit
(as always)
and watch her
dance that dance

(close far close far close far)

and smile
for i’ve yet to see
such beauty matched
anywhere in this world

and for it to come
so close to me

.
He is just another notch
     on her sterile bed of love.
He is just another victim
     of conquest for her thighs.
She is just another link
     in his daisy chain of woe.
She is just another span
     on his long bridge of sighs.


© Pagan Paul (21/05/17)

.
     I stare down at the plate of toast and beans
     wondering why this was never part of my dreams.
     Looking for the future with an illusional pretence,
     hoping good apples will fall on my side of the fence.

And as the fork dances slow
around the legumes in spirals,
the tedium of a wasting life
bears the burden and scars
of missed opportunities in paralysis
and the colour of once bright lights
          glow black,
shining a shadow into the void
covering the bruises
that were once achievements of worth,
     now tender patches
          of failure.
I drop the fork ...

     … pushing away the plate and leaving food uneaten,
     my desire for its nutrition fought and beaten,
     Looking at the apple tree with sombre regret
     maybe its fruit will fall and save me yet.

And disappointment
is worse than anger,
it begins with the stench of loss
the nasal whiff of
what if …

And what if the little apple tree
drops all its fruit down to me?
Would I recognise fortune on my side
or fear the illusions and run to hide?


© Pagan Paul (17/02/18)