Where The Devil Hides

By Rashad Booker

No horned fiend with cloven hoof,

 no pitch fork’s gleam, no fiery proof 

Of brimstone’s wrath or hellish cries,

 the truest devil in mankind lies.

It seeds itself in quiet thought, 

A sly suggestion, subtly wrought,

A whisper oft when truth is clear,

To plant the doubt, to foster fear.

It is the greed that claws and takes,

The envy that spirit breaks,

The pride that builds a golden throne,

Where pity is a seed un-sown.

It crafts a mask of righteousness, 

for every selfish, dark excess.

It paints the foe in the darkest hue,

To make our cruelties seem true.

It tells us “just,” it whispers “right,”

When shadows swallow inner light.

This serpent coils within the breast, 

puts love and kindness to the test.

It feeds on weakness, doubt and dread,

And taste the bitter, poisoned fruit.

No force can bind us fast,

 but this internal shadow cast.

It thrives on choice, us towards the kill-

Of empathy, of grace, of peace,

Until our inner turmoil’s cease.

So, look not to the skies above,

Nor blame a distant, evil glove.

The hell we fear, the depths we plumb,

From our own human failings come.

The devil’s seat, the lying tongue,

From deep within mankind is sprung.

By Rashad Booker