My devil is in a spire,
of desires climbing higher,
of passions that inspires
strands of humanity
too burn in the same fire
that is my ever-loving ire.

My angel resides
on the other side
of my dreaming demon mind,
passed parallel dimensions
as specters whisper
their spiritual intentions
to haunt me from
kingdom come
and back again.

Vipers spitting poison,
while lesser men
are poised to win,
but I take pleasure in
always struggling
to gain a single inch,
always crawling,
and scrawling
little bits of brilliance.

Sitting in some strange setting,  
but I am not a man for betting,
the books are closed,
the dice predisposed
to poorer roles,
and all the polls
are filled with ill-intent.

Here I am
somnambulant
sleeping, but moving
in minor increments,
so I can grasp the dreams
that stir within
my weary mind,
jot them down before
they fade like autumn leaves
crumbling in the breeze
and exiting.

In this writing you may find
a treasure chest or a pile of ****,
a bowel of bananas or more excrement
it all depends on how you look at it.