The finger dragged along the dust
Which had gathered on his sill.
He absently perused, unfussed,
As he mused on Satan’s bill.

Of course, then it was Lucifer:
Once the bright one, grown quite dim;
It tightening its own noose, for
There was no invoicing HIM.

HE’D all but wiped mote off on desk,
when struck by something clever.
I’ll make this union lot “grotesques”.
YOU can shite on them forever.


About phoenixmartin

C&G IT; BTEC Business Studies; BSc Hons Grad - Dipl Lit - published writer and poet working on play. Masters Ed
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