Sunday, July 15, 2007

Part 6.

On a winter's night The Devil
finds himself a Young Man,
not: he seeks one out and is successful,
but he looks at himself transmogrified,
a Chrysalis.

He beats his wings,
but tenderly,
as if to say,
don't forget who's boss.
Because he's still The Devil.
Maybe that's why she loves him.
Who knows.
There's questions dancing like stars
across the pitch of night,
far into the distance
flickering faster
the further out.

On a winter's night The Devil,
well read,
holding a flower,
high above the city,
well lubricated,
a hooded eye,
a bubble,
a haven from trouble,


If there is still magic buried
in this tamed and broken World,
then it's about damn time someone
began to dig it.

I dig it,
she says.

He laughs,
I know you do.

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