I met the devil at dawn
On a Saturday in June
He was sitting on a wrought iron park bench
Staring into the distance
While the sun rose behind him
Like a blood-red halo
The unholy lighting
Illuminating the face of the boy
He was not quite a man
But his soul was too heavy to be a child’s
He wore a leather jacket
Torn and faded
Over a perfectly pressed church shirt
There was an old scar on his throat
Skin warped and blistered
As if he’d been hung
With a noose of flame
His hair was a sandy blonde
And underneath dark sunglasses
His eyes were vibrant blue
And I could have thought
God painted the sky
Just to match the color
He didn’t smell like sulfur and brimstone
But he smelled of burning wood
And sweet honey
I sat next to him
As he told me of his glory days
As he told me of gold and treasures
Laid at his feet
As he told me of siblings
Who he used to share divinity and love with
As he told me of flying
Through the skies god painted
As he told me of knowing
Knowing he was holy
Knowing he was an Angel
Knowing he was loved
When the sun is fully risen
He falls to silence
His hand is hot
Made hotter by the blistering heat of June
I hold it anyways
I am no god
I can not give him precious jewels
I can not watch the world go by with him
As we stay frozen in our youth
I can not give him wings to soar
But I can hold his hand
On a Saturday morning in June
On a wrought iron bench in an empty park
And maybe
He can know he is loved
And it’s a beautiful thing, I think
As the sun stops haloing the boy
As people come to the park
And simple noise surrounds us
A beautiful thing
To have sympathy for the Devil