The devil loves me, but I am in love with an angel actually.
Kind of twisted now, sitting here.
An angel don't choose sides, he love them all, and the devil loves only Me.
I may not embrace the white silky garments of the one I actually love, but then again maybe the red garb of the devil, velvety silky ain't so bad after all.
The devil always waits with a red rose between his lips.
I have to admit I feel kind of flustered.
Red cheeks, hot breath in my neck, is that love?
Love?
How can it be love, if the devil only loves One, Me?
Is that dishonest? Honest towards whom?
Does the devil pick genders? Does he take em all?
Angels quite gender-less, or do they have a gender after all?
The white feather comes swooping down gently, laying its first mark on the man next to me, strike's midnight.
Just as the feather is landing, its first few tufts touching the cheek, man drops dead.
Was not some passing birds feather, was the feather of death.
The one that weighs if you were good or bad, whether your soul's works amounts to anything worthwhile during your life.
If I had been with the Angel, that benevolent being, lover of all, might have saved this one peculiar soul, if it truly dost needed saving, if not death is the most gentle kisses of goodbye, from the creator, to witness its own play in different shapes.
Ahh bugger the devil, for laying the trap, now another man must fall before the feather silky white of death, in mornglorn.
This ain't fair this ain't just.
I'll just stay with the omnipotent Angel, he may love more than one, but at least, among these is I.
Forlorn of long goners.
Walking treacherous paths unseen by olden eyes.
Fresh paths, not walked before by these here feet, until also my feather kisses my lips, just before blood will not colour my passionate lips anymore.
In the sunglorn farther up that reddish sky, sits an old man smoking his pipe resting on a steady rock, deliciously calmly sedately, with trashing waves down below in the coasts divide.
One part fluid, one part hard as rock.
These both can co-exist, and yet both are also just as important.
Yet fluidity must be far superior.
It can flow again and again against hard surface, until first scratches appear, which widen open into underwater caves only to be ripped asunder, by the smoking man's rings of smoke.
I hope you finished the poem until the end and feel inspired to become creative yourself.
Good day,
Thematoog