Woe you, O My Bosom Enemy!
Beshrew me for I am fed thy junk thoughts so gently,
Thou make me thy weapon to gratify thy desire,
Adding fuel to my unquenchable lustful fire,
Deep down inside me thou form a cross-patch,
Seemingly uncontrollable even by a massive latch,
How beautifully thy mask sheathe thy burning rivalry,
Using unhand means thou sit in the lap of luxury.
But mind it, O beautiful Satan!
Though thou regally rein in my conscience,
Thy crooked efforts bear fruits for transience,
An abrupt bonfire shook thy epileptic wall,
Foreboding “Heaven at Hand” and “Satan’s Fall”
This eternal light consumes the darkness of thy shadow,
Seeing the green crop bubbles up from thy barren furrow,
No filigree as it wore, screws the worldly power and pelf,
Peeling off the shabby layers there I see my Divine Self.
