The Writer’s Devil
She lives in twisted spires, Made of coconut husk skin, Bleeding damp mould, Living under the stairs. Mind’s feet hold you straight, Blue shadows settle higher, Walking paths she couldn’t take, Ivory teeth, the night shadow bares. Does Eve’s serpent’s daughter sire, One honest, left unknown, Burnt, ashy particles rise up with the fires, Faithless, trapped twin. This, the wretched pen inspires, Writing the demon within.