Dance
They might ask
If you know what the dance is like
If you know a devils peckish delights
But rarely do they ask
Rarely do they care
If the devil is true
And not some cheap imitation
Do they not know?
Fake devils breed nothing but fear
Fear and pain
Torment in the worst of ways
These imposters know nothing of delights
Nor a thing of dancing
If you ask me
They are nothing but an imposition
Something to through you off
Some sick joke is all they could ever be
So I shall ask again
Have you ever danced with a devil?
One how plays with flesh, only ever twisting the horrors away?
Ones who eat away the pain left by worldly wooes and dealings by feeding it something much more volatile?
The loving demons everyone wishes you to hate?
The ones holding back all the retched creatures?
Have you danced in circles and twirled for days just for the devil to hear your laughter?
To have a moment of beauty.
Have you seen them, those beautiful sins, be happy and merry, so filled with such delight you forgot they're a devil?
Nothing like the imposters sharing only anguish, their souls twisted like pitiful hate. Existing purely to spurn on more of their own. Never to comfort. Nor to create.
Now, can you answer?
Have you ever danced with a devil?
Maybe you should.
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