Portrait of the Devil

Lightning crashes — words touch the page
Like fire falling from the heavens —
A new Prometheus is born from flesh
Ripped and torn from bones of thieves,
Men executed

For uncounted crimes against
Fellow monsters. Sinful sinews are bound
To a sick frame, animated by
Blood stolen from hopeless mothers and
Forced together

With thread from the same worms
That digest the silent dead.
Angels and devils invade my hand,
Forcing it to move, shaping thoughts
On paper.

This is the crucible that transforms
The world with Heaven’s fire:
Choice, given to man by Lucifer,
God’s first angel, ambassador to a
Fallen race.