The Fiend in the Dreamland

a poem by Roger B Rueda

The fiend’s tongue seems to have magic –
its odium and wicked yearning
are shrouded in its bitter soul.
It’s more illusive than a serpent,
a turncoat, an absconder,
its firmness desolation of others,
of its foes, of its conflicts.
When it speaks, it only spews
charismatic vocalisations,
saintly and fragrant,
its goodness much better
than any other saints.
It buries itself in the holy book –
what a devotion, indeed.
It sings alleluia – unknowingly,
to Old Nick, its nameless god
as its impishness is its celebration
of its second death
in the vermillion water.
All the while, it denies its god,
illusionary and select
perhaps in its fate.
When they meet, only then
will it become wide-awake in truth.