I hesitated posting this here, but new poetry is new poetry. I wrote it in trochaic tetrameter. Okay, so I didn't write it that way at first. But I revised it in that meter anyway. It's addressed to my own personal demon.
Scorn for the Scorner
Bureaucratic sycophant
rising up in rank, your reign
discontinues here and now.
You suppose my heavy eyes
cannot see you in the night,
but I feel your bulk against my
chest, just pressing to my core.
You are not a skulking shadow,
nor a many-horned beast.
You are nothing but a cheap suit.
Probably borrowed that tie as well.
A Mephistopheles you are
not. A fallen angel locked
low under a raging river?
Hardly. Just a peon who will
not fulfill his given task.
Now my soul will not meet with your
loathsome teeth. Instead the soup
d’jour will be a bit more dour.
Dreary. Demonic. Dispossessed.
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