I had an affair with Mephistopheles.
Serenaded him under willows that
didn’t start weeping until we graced them.
He had bits of fruit lodged into that ashen heart of his.
Pearl shaped beads colored crimson inside that orb.
It didn’t hurt me, not once, when I plucked those
little buds full of incipience.
They fall so easily.
It was fickle seeing the power
I thought he possessed, but that cruel little demon
was weak for devotion.
An absolute fiend for spring blossoms, and amber locks
that had unknowingly became his gate.
And dear old Cerberus wept
when he tried to escape from me.
Éloa 
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