By Vihaan Dogra
With noble thoughts, comes the noble human.
On the shoulder, the angel thrives.
Bam! The walls pulverise.
Pitchfork wielding, the demon strives.
It’s the voices, the voices in the head.
Presenting choices, the choices at hand.
The fluid debate, the gritty advice
The distinct chimes, dripping with guile
The voices awaken, contention advances
Going the extra step, the extra mile
Not all perk up, not all rise true.
Shadows loom, cold as ice.
Waiting for leeway, a dark cloud settles.
On time, buries its fangs with vice.
The saints will arise tomorrow.
Deal in peace, do what’s right.
The devil hints a smirk, at the other’s expense.
"Oh sure, but the deed will be done tonight."
The choices don’t linger, happen in the snap of a finger.
They happen in the smallest moment.
From the sleight of the hand, the celerity of the body
The present doesn’t care but the future holds torment.
The pitchfork digs in, despair is the air.
The halo vanishes, the wings lie clipped.
Mua-ha-ha! The demon laughs, countenance wry.
A swirling abyss of anarchy, destiny is flipped.
It was the voices, the voices in the head
that took away the choices, the choices at hand.