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
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.