The Devils Poet

The Devils Poet

The poem sat breathing on the desk

its letters swelled with blood

a red rose dripped across the page

its roots drank smoke and mud

The poet stared with burning eyes

his hand was not his own

the devil pressed a poison pen

each line a breaking bone

The ink was thick, it stank of fire

it bled beneath the skin

the paper shook, the letters screamed

a voice that dragged him in

Smoke rose black from every word

the page began to sear

the rose grew teeth, its thorns drew blood

its petals fed on fear

The poet wrote until his veins

were clotted, raw, and torn

his breath was smoke, his tongue was ash

his flesh was devil-worn

The poem throbbed, alive with rage

it clawed against the night

its verses wept a river red

its stanzas bared their spite

The devil laughed, the curse was sealed

the ink too dark to fade

the rose became an open wound

a grave the poet made

Now blood and smoke still stain the page

no prayers can wash it clean

the red rose red eyed poet waits

inside the words unseen

Touch the poem, taste the ash

and hear the devil sing

for every line will slice the hand

that dares to turn the thing.