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Dining With The Devil

Poetry By: dibbledabble
Poetry



A dark poem and a dark subject.


Submitted:Jul 22, 2012    Reads: 62    Comments: 8    Likes: 2   


Dining with the Devil

--

Obsession had gripped his throat and throttled until there was nothing else left, choked his voice till it rattled incoherently and strange to him, rendering him unable to cry out.

An obsession driven by compulsion; the seed of which had been sown in his mind so many years before.

While obsession throttled, the twisted ivy vines of compulsion encircle his mind and distorted his thoughts.

Over powered he had given himself to them and accepted his fate.

--

At first it had tasted so good, the poison: Such sweet nectar as could not be refused.

A potion fermented and matured by sealed lips and a feeble fearful mind.

At first it had been small spoonfuls, by the end potent ladles of addictive destruction were served. No longer sweet and desirable but tasted of what it was: A vile and ungodly spew of basic selfish need.

Rampant Addiction.

--

Obsessions dark poison had seeped until saturated into his heart and clouded the thinly disguised compulsion rooted in his mind.

They had fed him to each other: obsession and compulsion. Devouring him greedily.

He had abandoned himself to the feast.

He had not chosen his poison. It was compulsion that had made that choice and bulimic with obsession had regurgitated him to lay helpless only to be consumed yet again.

--

Reality had faded and been replaced with and underworld of obsession, the only reason to exist to feed addiction

A cycle of uncontrollable hunger to satisfy, then to sit in horror, gorged fat and sick with self-loathing and regret.

And it was at this time before the hunger took hold again that his grip on reality was strong enough to make a stark choice.

Retreat deeper and longer into the safety of the acidic pit that was the bowels of obsession and wait for destruction to descend.

Or crawl out from under from underobsessions bloated bellyand passed the ever watchful eye of compulsion whilst they arestill docile from their frenzied feed.

Too clamber into the cauldron that bubbled with humiliation, shame, rejection, repulsion and self-recognition.

To face a truth so long denied. He was beyond self-help. Perhaps beyond help at all.

--

The choice: To be forever consumed or boiled alive.

He chose to be boiled and it was as painful as he ever imagined it would be

But better that than to deny there was a choice and end his days not as the person he once had been and god willing could be again.

--

Dine with the devil and the gates of hell open long before the reaper calls.

Foot note:, The image I have use is by an artist called Braid these are his words.

"Our world, with its rules of causality, has trained us to be miserly with forgiveness. By forgiving them too readily, we can be badly hurt. But if we've learned from a mistake and became better for it, shouldn't we be rewarded for the learning, rather than punished for the mistake?"

Braid





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