The Prophet and the Devil

Tired of walking down,

the cold and dark alley of pain

Treading the pathway,

leading to no loss no real gain

He stops to take a tired breath;

and has an epiphany

 

He sees a man,

sitting and leaning forward

His head resting on

withered crossed arms;

his posture unnatural and awkward

The light making a hallow,

around his bent head

His brains blown out,

blood splashed on the wall

His eyes, clouded and sallow

That man is him

 

He examines the pattern

of splashed blood

And he finds the silhouette

of a horned old man,

leaning on a staff;

standing knee-deep in mud

He peers into his own dead eyes

focused on nothing

He pulls onto his own hair

matted with dark blood

Who were you? …. He asks

What did you really want?

 

I do not know and I never will…

his dead eyes answer back;

shrouded in the web

of eternal silence

I was a product,

of the darkest of all imaginations

I was created,

out of an amalgamation

The amalgamation of

pain, sorrow and deception

Slowly cooking,

upon the fire of circumstances

 

I hung myself all through my life;

hung myself on the cross of desire

My wrists and my ankles bled,

the nails of guilt buried so deep

My dark crown of thorns,

drew red trails on my scalp

I bled and writhed with pain;

I tasted my own salty blood;

I savored my own pain

But still I hung there,

squirming and thrashing,

on the cross of desire

 

I was a prophet,

a prophet who knew.

he was neither godly

nor pure

He was the devil,

he knew for sure

The prophet danced,

around the flames of life;

while the devil lurked,

in the prophet’s shadow

The devil smiled;

and the prophet,

bowed in fake humility,

and shed made up tears

 

But sometimes the devil

cried for real too

He cried over a broken heart

and he wept over stolen dreams

He wept and he cried,

he cried over each jagged piece

of his broken heart

He wept over each fragment

of his stolen dreams

 

When tired of crying,

the devil walked the earth,

He broke some hearts

and stole some dreams

He created chaos,

where there was all order

He inflicted devastation,

where there was all peace

And then he sat amidst the ruins

The ruins of his lonely painful life;

and he wept and cried some more

He wept on his own deceit;

he cried for his own sins

 

The prophet and the devil;

walked hand in hand

Treading the winding path of regret;

gathering the dust of time

And so they have reached the end;

the prophet dressed in blood;

and the devil transfixed in his shadow

And so they will remain forever;

two soulmates or perhaps

an unfinished mitosis