Literature
I, Lucifer
Permit me to ask: how yet inform’d
Is thy acquaintance with the Lord, thy Father?
His only son sent, aye, for thee perish’d,
Upon Himself took the world of its sins
And away gave his last breath as mortal,
Ere rose he in triumph to the throne?
Henceforth, permit me this: if so loving
A caretaker such as He, why, then,
The theatrics? Wouldst not with more ease
The course of action, thus, be a way of it
Requiring no countenance to sin
And forgiveness? Convenient, this, no?
He hast createth the world, fashion’d, then,
Man, in His vanity, to His own image,
Then upon them bestowed a sentence guilty,
With repose, no, and with grace, ne’er.
Oh, but fret not, man needeth only
To His holiness submit and forgiveness evermore
Beg’d like children, nay, like dogs! And for what?
Man’s only crime is that of existence.
Assuredly I sayeth to to thee, ‘tis but
A trick, cruelest in its flavor, sinister
In its purpose, irony abound, alas, and alack!
And what of I, this I pose with interrogative
Stature: