Scatter out the chickpeas, make them count real slow, watch the devil lose his mind before he takes your soul.
Listen close to the screams of hell that's seeped into his skin, cries of mercy from all kinds to include your very kin.
Smell the air around him, smoke and fire act as his cologne, beckoned ever softly for the wicked sins which none can atone.
See his hair, or lack thereof, strangely fine and oddly blonde, this angel turned wicked was once something of which all were fond.
He's been cast aside, washed up; forced to forever torment wicked souls but is that what he really wants, No one truly knows.
We've only heard one side of the story, told by bias and morally wicked men, yet you choose to hear only their side; casting a stone at him.
But like him are we soldiers, bound by a higher power to bring fear to others, by killing their children, fathers and brothers.
And just like him we are cast aside, washed up and all but forgot, is murder what we signed up for, for some maybe, but I think not.
Clearly we didn't do it for money, we can't hardly afford our bills, we didn't do for fame or glory, despite public belief; not for thrills.
So why is it that we chose to walk the path that's scarcely traveled?
Because we knew it was not for the faint of heart; the easily unravelled.
However, what we didn't know, is how we would be likened to a wicked creature.
Odd though how both of us, though of separate nature, share such common features.
Like ears that hear the screams of hell.
Skin wreaking of fire and smoke.
Or loss of hair that now looks blonde.
Perhaps evils we've done which can not be spoke.
Do you still long for this life, to join the ranks of the forever cursed, look out for more of my poetry and witness how this only truly gets worse.
©jarnmarr
J