The Devil of the Thorns
I am the Devil of the Thorns–
with my eyesockets filled with only
the darkness of the evilest typhoon
And pores of a juniper fern.
So bear with me as we entice the kings
of the world to think and turn
Against each other.
I already perfected my facial bones
because they will slap back harder
Than the truth that’s been waiting
to be unveiled; a sweet drug
covered in a crimson linen.
Running, always running, they are now
far from the paradise I once fought for.
The valleys were always on fire, I know,
But theirs is also chilling cold.
Are they living in a frozen hell?
How will I know,
I am just the Devil of the Thorns
and of the forest of merlot trees.
The twisted minds, they worship me.
But what is the state of thinking
to what you believe in?
It’s better to have a mind unwired
Than a heart that’s not pure
but pebbled grey, filled with the smoke
of the bonfire they used
To burn the witches they accused.
They are raging with hatred! Drenched
in blood! Their hands are colored ruby!
I felt the inferno in my skin too;
it scathed my skin and it curled as it was peeling.
Yet our dignity scorned is more harrowing.
They were taught by the gods they never knew.
So I creeped from the crack
of a parched, frosty detritus
And hissed and fought back.
To avenge against the kings of the world
and their gods who sent the fire
To my father and mother,
to my brothers and sisters,
to my myself and my lover.
I will continue to crawl
in the boundaries of your good and their wrong
of their odes and your songs.
Look at my horns and relive
the violence of the saints and the priests
then ask yourself who again
Strived for the angels’ freedom in heaven.
I, the Devil of the Thorns,
have my roses blooming too.
It is because of his eyes
that I fell into this roily trap
and hated and scorned,
spray painted red and groped.
It is his eyes and the roses
reflecting to them
that yet brings me hope.
It is because of his hair–
the silky curls with an attitude
that I am tied in a choking rope.
Chained, even so, to their rules
and conception. I fight to breathe
amidst the heavy blush smoke
to freely touch his hair with an attitude.
It is because of the way he talks
that I’m being stabbed by their eyes–
the same eyes of their god–
and whipped by their whispering tongues.
The communion table is where
they sacrifice our body parts
like crushed apples.
It is because of his wits and mysteries
that I was played like a rodent
inside a laboratory.
With all their techniques and radioactivity–
and lots of blood– that we don’t understand
loving another laymen.
It is because of his kisses
that I always miss the turkeys and sweets
by staying behind the cracks and the walls–
“Hide me, hide us. Is it alright to hide? Should we show up now?”–
hiding and searching
from them and for myself
and his cherry kisses.
It is because of his passion
that I wet my pillows every night.
Sweaty and drunk, we dream of a day
when our children
will enjoy a drink in the bar
without the poison of fear
in their red wine glasses.
It is because of his love
that I fell into this trap
that I adore– I won’t even try to get up.
For if there is something that will bend,
it is not us,
but their mahogany walls and their church bells.
We will not end.
It is because of him–
my scarlet mage, my psychedelic lover–
that I grew a little further
and I will not try to let go
even if the whole world hates
every bit of us.
We will not end.