Wednesday, June 15, 2005


a struggle inside
voices of genocide
burning away my insides
with their volumes of lies
penetrating through a crack in my fortress of stone
only by myself am i not really ever truly alone
there across from me sits this ancient evil
this evil, folklore describes as the devil
his eyes glisten with crimson blood and fire
his teeth are liken to half inch spires
his hunger is unsatiable for the precision entropy
my soul is just another of his countless trophies
but i have the power of free will
and in the end it will be his blood spilt
he is and was never a friend of mine
what's due him shall come in time

© 2004 thomas bates

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