Devil’s Jubilee
Don my dark glasses in the shade.
The darkness is that which I crave.
I would conspire with the night
that I ascribe unto the light.
I am a censor of the dead.
Their cries are silenced, and instead,
the silence deafens, in their place,
no hope for freedom, grace erased.
But not because it’s really gone.
Those who yet live sing that old song,
its meaning drained from overuse.
“Amazing . . . “, hackneyed, yes, but true.
Like I would warn you from your fate,
that you might change before too late?!
Your soul is what I would possess.
It’s mine! I know you won’t confess.
You are too proud! Deny, like me,
creation is reality.
It’s a mirage, what you must know,
it disappears and then you go,
to your reward in hell with me
to be as nothing you were meant to be.
I will welcome you with open arms.
These words that sound like false alarms
unto your ears, you needn’t worry,
’til it’s too late, then you’ll be sorry.
T.H. Chalm 