Deep within a labyrinth, a strange devil dwells.
For he of wild passions and not of sulphur smells.
I asked him kindly: "Sir, could you leave my estate?"
"Leave?!" he laughed. "For that it's much too late
Haven't you observed the crimson sunrise, my son?
Have you slumbered, when the wall was torn down?
Have you forgotten, how the forbidden flower smells?
Are your heart and soul naught, but two dried-out wells?"
The daemon is right, I hesitantly admit to myself.
But I am far too terrified to reach out for the top shelf.
For that book contains horrors of forgotten nature.
Horrors, for which my mind is not sufficiently mature.
And thus I rest in this eternal unknowing.
To disrupt this letargy is far beyong my own doing.
And when the devil offers his helping hand.
I reach out, content with the fact that this is the end.
