Because I fancy myself some sort of writer, I made one of those oh so tricky promises to always write at least one poem a year- one poem a year on my birthday.
I just recently found the one from my past celebratory date:
I have made deals with the devil-
knowing full well the devil does not deal.
And I have done it gleefully,
desperately.
And only the desperate are answered because their questions are
considerably more powerful
than the bored.
And when desperation combines with waning strength,
the devil appears.
What is the devil except for every bad thing
erupting at once?
What is the devil but my unraveling.
----------------------------------------------
Must have been a pretty wicked birthday, hey?
No comments:
Post a Comment