What could I even trade
to bargain with the devil?
There is nothing of me to offer.
I have no looks to boast of,
and strength was never mine.
My wit is brittle—
they call me foolish,
gullible,
a shadow of thought.
Ideas spark, yes—
but none survive my grasp.
I am no leader,
no guiding flame;
I’d even falter
as a servant bound in chains.
What value, then,
could I lay on the devil’s table?
Oh, how cruel—
how cruel this life remains.
An empty sky mocks my prayers,
even hell spits out my name.
Misery!
Misery is the marrow of my bones,
the only hymn this body knows.
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