Mimicking the devil

In the hollow where the cold winds burn,

The Devil waits at every turn.

Its breath is ash, its path is red,

It hunts the living, leaves them dead.

But high above, a shape fell down,

No voice, no soul, no native ground.

It wears the wolf, it walks so still—

And watches as the Ringleader kills.

It studied blood like sacred text,

Each broken bone, each twisted neck.

With legs too long and skin pulled tight,

It followed murder into night.

It wears the wolf, but not for fear,

Its eyes are blue, its steps unclear.

No scream, no roar, just coiling limbs—

And death that echoes quiet hymns.

“It learned from kings, not to compete—

But to become what haunts the deep.

It saw the Ringleader decide…

Then tore its prey and stood beside.”

Now the Devil roams, and so does it,

A shadow’s shadow, tightly knit.

One born to rule, one born to lie,

And both will watch you as you die.

So when the woods go sharp and still,

You’re not alone — you never will.

The first one hunts… the second kills—

And both are there…

Watching the Devil.