Fryent Country Park
Poetry
Storm Anderson

Beware the Devil

He devours joy.

And those souls you tried to sell?

Aren’t the bottom dollar bargain

you were expecting.

 

But was a deal really on your mind

when you crashed their party?

 

Or did you just see their joy,

and feel entitled to your own?

 

I hope they spat in your face for invading their dance.

I hope you ran away from that river weeping

in time with your wounded hand.

I hope you spent every last pence in your pocket

buying lottery tickets.

I hope each one reminded you

you’re a fucking loser.

 

I hope hell is real

so I can watch your face

as the Devil mocks you

for not completing your down payment.

 

I hope they’re out there somewhere

Dancing. Smiling. Laughing.

Ignorant to the disrespect brought upon them

by you and the metropolitan police department.

 

I hope for a world where women are safe at night.