The Devil is a suffering thing.

In a moment of quiet I pity him

when thinking of wistful joy and hope,

like a hurt beast, hunting in hunger 

for souls that offer nothing;

too proud to admit his hurt

smiling through the inner fire

finding no rest in hate

filled with poison to the brim

and keeping within acid tears of pride.

He, too, was one of the blessed,

brother of the subtle harmonies

and small flowers made of light.