Like any quest, mine begins at the ending.
The Devil’s not a being, but a sentiment
Sitting in your heart letting details commit
Forgery; remastering the one track your mind
Can’t handle when it plays the tragicomic
Tour-de-forcefully; its sorcery cutting lines
Brakes a part and drives the genius in your midst
Between the silver and the mirror: look behind
Your Self, lay down ‘Vade retro…’ talismans.
Son, yours is the tongue silvering in eminence;
Your crown is imminent if you’d just forget
Your saboteur knocking behind closed doors whose blind
Criticism is your prison. All of it
Occurs when you’re sitting next to the phone confined
To fear. When you’re needing wings—your own air-lift
Out of here—Hell’s wall with Heaven’s a thin divide.