The Devil walks with his head held high
and asks me what it’s like to be alive.
I tell him it’s all very wet work and
he laughs, but not with his eyes.
I think that all that he can remember is the pain.
I tell him it’s all temporary, anyway.
Especially the good,
but even the bad.
He smiles with his eyes then,
tells me he’ll take my word for it.
He is the ghost in the dark that only I can see.
When he comes into the light
he smiles and tells me I smell like poetry
but I taste more like Aristotle to him.
He fights life like it’s something he’s got to beat,
and he reminds me what it is I’m fighting for.
The Devil was a writer, too,
Before he gave it up,
“For health purposes.”
He puts a cigarette between his lips and asks me if I have a light;
I tell him that there’s plenty of fire inside and
he asks me to blow a bit out of my eyes but
he doesn’t think that I’m naïve anymore.
He tells me that I’m a warrior, too,
and he wishes he could fight beside me, sometime.
The Devil walks with his head held high,
tells me he wonders what it’s like
to be alive.