That baleful germ watches my going rate.
Comes with blunted spear--chafed flesh
pulled through Nothing come to its tether.
An ingrown horn--gluey eyes sleepless as
any decor in a crooked House.
One wing up on a downturned one.
A roving cackle that stokes the throat of
its fire.
As if the pleasantries of a disfigured humor
abide their disease--know their place
amongst what was, but is no more.
The precipice stilled all the more in dark
of its sky, what land there was to distance
closed...pushed outward the demon's
face as it sped downward.
The All summed up in a word shy of its
Word.
O demon, self-contained thing...whose
slights bar thee by design.
By God's reluctance, animus thee spend,
to rule out what good could come of thee.
As if by the taking you secure increase--
there's no rallying God by the taking...
nay by private fang nor claw core undone.
Your striving put you to what you are.
As so, it is you...that makes the face of
anything--just until it shall have of itself,
bear itself.
That bearing be Godly--your industry is one
of delight in the confusion prior to that
bearing--O demon!
Hence, you are cast out by what sets its
sights by right divine!