AT MY COMMAND
the Devil bequeathed me
his book of dark poetry
each page flirting from
absolute zero to
thermonuclear fire
with a blink
in the batting of
a slow mortal eye
and there
I imbibed
and imbibed
to be
armed
to be ready
for a war
of words second to
none on
the horizon
and few, so few
determined
to survive
but the terror of
the dark metaphors
taxed me so greatly,
so
difficult to
get one’s mind around
without
slipping into
madness, brain
shattering as
their truth dawned
let alone to
learn, make mine
stand with the
power of every
single infernal legion
at my command
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