The demon bellowed out a laugh
“You think I want your prayers?”
He cackled as dust rained
Down from the cavern top
She flinched away in fear

“Do you see this throne?”
He asked, “Do you see it?
Do you know what it’s made of?
Little girl do you know?
It’s made from the bones.”

“The bones of who?”
She asked, weak and scared
“The bones of the men
Who would make me their god.”
He scoffed, “I do not need your prayers.”

“You’ve misunderstood.”
His laughter boomed,
“Then enlighten me mortal.”
She bowed again, a picture of grace
“You’ve misunderstood.”

“It is not to you that I wish to pray,
But for you.”