'Devil, The'

Benched in the mid-morning sun, ‘neath the evergreens; back amidst the evenin’ storm, howling fierce and dark as pitch, torrential veils shroud me. 

Smouldering mercury high above, bled in fall from orbit; unto ranks of orange pillars, a-line empty highways. Validated vaguely by, my vaunted frozen glare; oceans depths set ’neath the jet, that no passer-by dares.

Heaving shoulders under armour, charging down the future. Ragged breath through a maniacal, devils-own style grin.

Conviction now resonant, within my black veins. Furious, the fighting darkstar. Victory my fate. There’s no hope these motherfuckers, ever had against.

'Devil, The'

Laszlo Totka

Sydney, Australia

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