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Andy O'brien Poem
The devil came amongst them,
As they rang the midnight bell,
Said that one of their number,
Must taste the fires of Hell.
“Which of you is good enough,
To stand forth and not quail?
To have your sin and virtue,
Measured on my scale?”
The crowd they grovelled in the dirt,
Each guarding his own sin.
Only one man raised his chin up high,
And walked right up to him.
The devil sneered in that man’s face,
And announced, loud and cocksure,
“Pride itself is sin enough,
I doubt you’ll prove that pure.”
“What feat of ego drives you,
To think you can pass this test?
What indulgence lends you to believe,
You’re better than the rest?”
“You have me wrong, O Satan,”
The man calmly declared,
“I am a sinner bound for hell,
But I’m now fully prepared.”
“You’ll come for me eventually,
Would it be such a blow?
If I gave up the ghost right here,
And with you chose to go?”
The devil reared and flexed his claws,
Gave out a mighty hiss,
“What game of words is this you play?
I make no sense of this.”
“Oh devil, it occurred to me,
The truth of the choice I face,
If I did not come with you,
Another would take my place.”
And that man he said to Satan,
“I have no other goal,
Than to go, knowing at least,
I saved one other soul.”
The devil gnashed his teeth and then
He cut that man apart.
Plunged those claws into his chest,
Ripped out his beating heart.
But the heart still pumped and throbbed,
With life and vibrancy,
And the devil clasped it with both hands,
To stop it breaking free.
But the heart began to dissipate,
Into a ball of light,
The devil roared as it rose up,
Gently defied his might.
For evil can be thwarted,
With each small act of grace,
And souls can move on from older selves,
To find a better place.
Copyright © Andy O'Brien | Year Posted 2026
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Details |
Andy O'brien Poem
The lad expected that it would swoop down,
All black and tortured grief,
He never saw the dull grey fog,
Conceal that shadowed thief.
The inciting incident,
In a tale both long and sad,
When that grim, disgusting creature,
Stole away that lad.
It sat itself upon a throne,
This sad, remorseful thing.
Usurped a better man than it,
And called itself his King.
It tainted all the lad did feel,
Acted like a jealous lover,
To keep the lad alone with it,
So he should know no other.
But the lad he was not faithful,
Often he would stray.
Sometimes gone for days at once,
When he could slip away.
But each and every time he did,
It would come, drag him back in.
And he'd be bloodied from the fight,
His soul more steeped in sin.
Each time the wounds cut deeper,
Kept him longer from the fight.
Each time more open to believe,
That all its lies were right.
The lad one day, he found some help,
From wise women three,
Each one with their insights,
Into mental sorcery.
Though the thing's grip had him tight.
They taught him to be stronger.
And gave to him the strength to wage,
This war a little longer.
They cleared a path to lead him,
To a sage of wizardry.
To a bastion of intellect,
Who could help him become free.
The sage picked him up and aided him,
Gave to him some crutches.
And sent him hobbling to a place,
Where he need not fear its clutches.
And in this land he found a thing,
Most wondrous in design.
A tiny, oval window,
Its surface thick with grime.
With spit and sleeve he got to work,
Cleared the muck away.
Rubbed until the glass was clear.
And from it came a ray.
A ray so bright, a bounteous light.
Stirring memories long gone.
As he stepped into its radiance,
And on his face it shone.
He saw something that moved him,
As he peered through the glass to see,
A hundred other windows,
And other souls like he.
It gave to him that final piece,
Clear within his sight.
He knew that he was not alone,
He had comrades in his fight.
He took strength from their numbers,
And sharpened up his sword.
Summoned his remaining strength,
And took himself to war.
It came shaking from its castle,
When it learnt of what he'd done.
The lad stood tall, looked down his nose,
"Come on, let's have you son."
The fighting it still rages,
Though now it's the one that shies.
For it sees now that he'll fight until,
Whichever one first dies.
Maybe one day that lad will win,
He'll cast it down and then,
Bind it in the dungeon,
Where it can't take other men.
Copyright © Andy O'Brien | Year Posted 2026
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Details |
Andy O'brien Poem
When the mask fell from The Beast,
The people jeered with glee.
When it stumbled from its throne,
They rejoiced for they were free.
They turned to celebration,
They drank and they did feast,
Whilst men crept from the shadows,
Placed a new mask on The Beast.
They lifted it out from the dirt,
Stood it up onto its feet,
Dusted down its filthy robe,
Sat it back upon its seat.
And when the people turned to see,
The Beast now fresh and strange,
They buried it in tribute,
For they thought The Beast brought change.
Copyright © Andy O'Brien | Year Posted 2026
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