Lucifer's Companion

                Day is not day without shadows. A sun is not a sun without hellish fires, thrusting with endless hope, as impractical minds tend to do. And life: life is not life without the devil’s attendant. His aide is a plague, scorching the dry to enormous flames; it is the burden weighing on the bedriddens’ chests, crushing with weight unbelievable; it is the writhing shadows and the nefarious fires. The depressed crave it, the knives seek it, and the perpetrators pay for it. Soldiers lay vigilant at night, fearing it more than imaginable, yet refuse to not be a part of it. It is inescapable; however populations spend their whole lives trying to escape it. It is there under the pile of fallen, withered leaves, frolicking with infected wounds, skipping alongside children. Oh, whither shall one fly? Escaping is impossible, for it is as obstinate as a mule. To hiss at it is foolish, for it will merely laugh at you and take away the privilege of breath. The masses ignore it until it threatens them, for none want the curse. And when threatened, the unnerved crowds will only cause more of it to distribute. Misleading and mysterious, it will mince like a lady; conversely, it is as obvious to humanity as the wheels on humanity’s car. But when the public drives, is it not true that they notice their wheels not? In the same way, the anathema is everywhere. It crawls on skin, nibbling away at the layers, to dispose completely of its lost, lonely victims. It is death, and it races through the earth faster than the devil himself.

 

This poem is about: 
My community
My country
Our world
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