A Devil in Munich City {Poem}
Written by Bennie Castle
And with one swoop, his left leg rose against the marbled floor.
Lemented then he, the architect, of ever making a show of speech, beseeched by a Devil in Munich City.
‘Oh, our Dear Lady. What will fate make of us next?’
For she has a way of being blissful towards progression. Worse than a slothful wife.
More like regression, or worse, stagnancy, like a dead one.
Your Majesty of utter Darkness, where respect it is given sadly because it is feared.
the Prince of Nothingness.
the Devil himself, arriving and leaving his mark in Munich City.
‘Oh, our Dear Lady. What words shall I suggest, if they lie not within one’s breast,
And not between a single breath of the lungs but adorned on a silver platter?’
Cried he, the architect.
Endless food for thought, and brought to naught, rotten and poisoned, but food nonetheless.
Here ye’ brought some Devil before me,
A Devil in Munich City, yearned the architect.
Passed him, passed the doors, and into the front of a snow-dimmed sky, why, until the sun was fully down & drowned. Until the moon thronged up near the stars,
His harshness is unmatched.
His coldness is unfathomable.
Yet at the same time, his gracefulness saved him from having to explain.
His duty was to be, simply as he’d always been, the Angel of Death that is, of whom we speak of.
And that duty was until time stretched no longer.
Passed the times of warnings, into another.
The darkness pursued him into the wilderness.
A pity for mankind and the Earth it trots.
For this Devil robbed them of their time and set of timely laws, divinical limitations within his own space, of his own accord. And the footprint he left there was to be a testament.
An estimate worth nothing’s to the tempered, everything to the tempest.
His head rested against his fist, like a judge who had already decided a case before the crime had even happened.
Haunted, he left them, the Devil of Munich City.
A pity, for they never caught the name of that Devil, except say his title of being so.
And none knew where he’d come from, except for hell perhaps, cried one nun.
The sun then settled there, in Munich City.
Oh our Dear Lady, what can today bring that tomorrow never does?
Guaranteed humbleness.
Today and now, and any memories left of yesterdays are all a man has that are ever truly his. When we die, our treasures, are to be found by another. Our homes, enjoyed by someone else. But our yesterdays, todays and tomorrows are as personal as hell and chambers of passion in the Paradise of Heaven, the lowest circle. As personal as that unamed devil’s business,
the Devil of Munich City.
