The Fallen
But something’s different now, / changed. I don’t know why or how.
Not even the devils are evil by nature
—St. Thomas AquinasI see them from my perch
Atop the ever-burning church
That stands next to the square
In uptown Dis. They aren’t aware,
It seems, that they are being
Watched. Malicious eyes farseeing
Through ashen mist and gloom
Peak out of every smoldering tomb
They pass. I watch them meet
A tortured shade down on the street,
Stopping their hurried walk
To introduce themselves and talk.
Although I am not near
Enough to hear their voices, cheer
Erupts out of their faces,
Irrupting in the hellish places
They pass—the residue
It leaves is something I once knew.
I dig around my mind—
They’re wandering preachers, nuns, some kind
Of monks. No, missionaries!
And as they rove about, each carries
A bag of pamphlets, books
They give to anyone who looks
Them in the eyes too long.
They always say that they “belong
To the Church of...” what?
I can’t recall the name. I shut
My eyes to concentrate.
What is that word they say they hate,
But really love? It’s Moron,
Right? No, that’s not it. Or mon-
Ist, maybe? No. What is
That word? The Devil says that his
Epiphanies all come
When he stops straining, so I hum
A little tune and try
To dream of other things. But why
Is it so hard to think
With them nearby? A twisted kink
Is tangling up my thoughts
Into a mass of Gordian knots.
Maybe I’ve been below
Too long? Come on, I know
This word... I’ve got it! Mormon!
Now they approach the demon doorman
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