A whisper here,
a thought there,
little things
everywhere.

Fear — sweet, sweet seduction.
The Devil’s Bloom, I call it.

Riding on a mighty high-horse,
dressed in glitters of your mediocrity.

A table for two,
the dinner of a lifetime,
a righteous feast.

Perfected just for you.
Oh, the details —
impeccable.

It’s beginning like a seed.
Its end, a carnival of colorful despair,
each thought tap-dancing
on your quivering heart.

But I reckon,
the bloom withers
if you don’t water it.

And only those who’ve knelt
in hell’s defiance
would dare,

point and say:
“Hades is that way.”

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