If God writes great plays then the Devil no doubt, is a poet,
Rhyming with fate through sly verses, or reducing all of life
To short lines.  That force, or whatever it may be carefully
Selects what to keep and what to expose in fine detail.
For just as dust itself contains people so does writing reveal
Covert signs. As God adapts into film, He-She-It clearly conveys
The big picture. Though, these days of course, it is pixels
From which each portrait of life is comprised. And so, the saga,
Or, epic described in the chaos between Bible clashes, is the kind
Of war raged in heaven which makes Angels Soldiers, divided
And torn on each side. I’ve always thought thunder and lightning
Strikes were that war, as above all skies there is skirmish.
And the very sounds of those battles are the rumble and roar
Around rain. There is our foreground life, superimposed
On their context. Or, perhaps our fast written pages scored
With their subtext, concerned as it is with our pain.
Who do we fight with now, or against, when the enemy
Remains undefeated? From terrifying flus to consumption,
From cancer and back, to TB; there is now this themed
Strain resounding through cough, gaining echo, and so
They say, still evolving as manunkind apes the free. 
Is it possible that God in disgust has sent a blight set to stall us,
Or brought on board others, who through selfish means
Sought our end? Should this prove the case than that first
Governing glow is long settled and the mess we’re in sees us
Mired in a place where only the most arcane becomes friend.
Man is often God’s joke, parodying Creation, and thus, seduced
Into pity, and through amusement, no doubt, the blames shared.
As a white and red light both shine, marking both entrance
Ad exit, and long lost to loving the Devil at last may well care.
For we are now more his, or its, than we belong to that first
Said to shape us. And this is why they fight. Clouds are metal.
They only look like steam. They’re white shadows, cast across
Darkness and by a different form of light. True sight dares.
As all writing must, if it is to mean more than that made before it.
The Devil has all the best lines. Its been quoted. And pale Angels,
Of course can’t compare. We’re all showing our true colours now,
Even if for most of us, they’re transparent.  The pigments bleed,
Or blur blandly as a climate of tears weights each face. And so,
We turn to the dark, preparing in time for the struggles, in which
A prize shared by both sides could change the outer
From the forces around innerspace. Only God or the Devil
Now knows how we will fare or fail in the future. I wonder
Which of them’s more invested? Or, perhaps both Gods
Gamble and frequently Hell is heaven, and Heaven, Hell.
Hail, disgrace. Unnaturally, all’s revealed. Just not now.
So, we journey. At times of peace, wars continue,
For as the elite try to steal us, we fight to remain
Commonplace.  This aim is something to share, then,
At least. For while the Devil may care, the idea of God
Still knows better. And so these poems become Pen pal
Letters. The first to reply holds the human and will certainly
Win that strange race.
David Erdos, April 23rd 2021
Illustration: Claire Palmer

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