Was the devil ever a man?
When man descended to Earth, who was to be blamed? The devil seducing the man or the man willingly following? The churlish authenticity of the devil's repugnance stands undeniable. Nevertheless, the maliciousness remains fictitious. For the devil legitimately came with the warning. One of his own word, wearing the promise he gave around his neck superciliously to prove that when a mask is worn, it's never to conceal the jejune existence of hideousness, it's only to reveal yours.
The devil promised to mislead you, he did.
To fail you, that too, he did.
And become your dismay, as he did.
One thing he didn't was to shatter the promise or deny its utterance.
That, I never did.
How come I get to be named the coward when it was you who ran away from my retribution and not my admonition?
I'll tell you.
For the same tongue ebulliently enchanting the veracity of my anecdote became the one reconstructing your temple. My blind soul captured your ethereal lines after a long chase of uxorious braille. Usually, I'd prefer you on your knees but when I get on mine, my thirst can only be quenched by the droplets of heaven wept between your thighs. And I devour it all until the river is sworn upon to be nothing but an attenuated land. You are to be torn apart, and only I can put you back in one piece. Those merciless digits that found their habit in reaping souls can scald themselves with tenderness against the warmth of moist petals, barely striking your nerves only to witness the scream of perfervid desideratum within your being. All to pamper forlorn ears with the breathless phoneme of enchanted dalliance, for the love of pleasurable closeness to satisfaction after inexorable deprivation.
While my tongue spoke the only amatory veracity that could be uttered in no orthography, only through devouring your essence to discover the authenticity of my manhood, I whispered my name in hushed murmurous against the saltiness of your skin to inject my addicting signature into your veins. That hand you once shook above the oath of animosity we agreed upon is the same squeezing your wind pipe, depriving your lungs of any breathable material other than the submission to my pompousness. And when I get back to my feet, our mouths will never exchange any frivolous articulacy of translucence, it'll be the deafening quiescence of our encompassment screeching through the roughness of your clattering thoughts. Don't blame me for the chains of amaranthine imprints around your neck, those are the strings of your nervous system, the one you begged so pathetically to be electrocuted. Where is your conscious now?
You pray for heaven so pleadingly, but you run to the devil for what he does with his tongue.
