He opened the door with a trembling hand,
To a shadow he swore he’d never withstand.
They wore a smile stitched tight with lies,
A serpent’s grace in a lover’s guise.
They spoke of change, of pain, of light,
Of demons battled in the lonely night.
And though the truth rang false and thin,
His heart was weak, he let them in.
The walls once bare grew dark with dread,
Each word they spoke chipped at his head.
They wept, then raged, then kissed his skin
The cycle spun; he caved again.
Apologies like poisoned wine,
Poured sweet, but soured over time.
He drank them down, each tender plea,
Blind to the knife aimed silently.
Friends cried warnings, sharp and loud,
But love can wrap you in a shroud.
“One more chance,” he softly said,
While they stitched flowers for his bed.
And now he sleeps beneath the ground,
While they still breathe, still walk around.
Where is justice for blood once shed
For the man who gave until he bled?
They feed off what he left behind,
His labor, love, his peace of mind.
Not a minute passed from his last breath,
Before they spoke of wealth from death.
He gave a second chance, too dear,
And now he’s gone, but they’re still here.
Let this tale be carved in stone:
Never let the devil back in your home.
— Mekdes