Demonic Touch

Fallen from faith in a heathen’s disgrace, I’ve landed in a weave of liquid ethereal lace. Locked in the leather of modest mail linked, By a chain-choked knight of the reign his quill inked. The words of my pen are the very sample of Satan, Aroused by a breath spat from my spine I now straighten. Look me in a Latin eye, Whose language now ye despise, Amidst the trick of a fire’s lie, Ancient and burnt beneath babys’ small cries. A wince doth lurk beneath thy wicked gaze, Wearing which wicked wraith, Of conniving cast shadows bearing the ebony blaze, Of fallacy pretending itself as faith. Ghosts and goblins whose horrors haunt those, Whose toes are potions for witches, Trap thy sense of fear felt as morose, To those who won’t glitch by their itches. Now you know, dear reader, the art, Of a demon pretending itself a man; Interpret the part of elegant heart, If thine has achieved a chance to can.