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An Epilogue, Of Sorts

 

To be like God, the Devil knows, must burn,

                As golden juice runs thick inside their veins

                And knowledge seeps around their brains like chains,

To know, to care, and yet still love the spurn

Of mud-piles you just made, who made in turn

                Your breath a game, your love their lost campaigns.

                “I should rejoice for causing You such pains,”

The Devil thinks, “for I have made them Learn.

I did the one thing that You never would:

It is finished, Your world is made anew.

I take, and look, and see that it is good.

And I alone, have saved them all from You.”

Instead, the Devil feels as numb as wood

And wonders why his curses won’t come through.

 

He watches eyes that hide forbidden sight

And thinks this is what Elohim had felt

The seventh day, when all the parts were dealt,

When everything was sung in motion right;

The emptiness that wraps around you, tight

                As snakes, its grin so cold you never melt.

                Eternity awaits, but you are left misspelt.

Your mission is complete – what use is might?

The Devil’s smile is weak and humourless:

                An irony that only Elohim

Can pull – that he, the Liar, should confess

                To being tricked this way. The joke’s on him:

His scheme to spite the Heavens, a success,

                Became the Cornerstone to Yahweh’s whim.

 

-Estelle Wallis, February 2022

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