Selling the Soul

_A poem under the Pseudonym Steven Bishop

When dank
the plumes of colored beasts,
when shifting
are their words,
you shudder at the wretched screams
of paradisal birds.

The empty call of hollow trees,
a woman burned at stake;
you wander aimless
to your home,
a child's head to break.

You wicked thing
to follow all the people
of the devil;
you know that all your deeds of good
are for the sake of evil.

So bring your heart,
prepare it now in heaps
upon a plate,
and bow before me,
quivering,
in hunger and in hate --
quivering and bloody
for your untimely fate.

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