Perhaps I'd be good for the devil —
not with a sword, nor with prayers,
but with thoughts so knotted,
he'd sit down, bewildered,
forgetting for a moment the fires he stoked.

I'd speak in riddles of forgiveness,
of grief that softens into mercy,
of storms that bring flowers in their wake.
And maybe — just maybe —
he'd stop sharpening his horns,
and start listening.

Imagine him,
the old terror himself,
cradling a cracked mirror,
pondering the glint of a life unburned,
wondering if redemption is not a prison
but a kind of gentle rebellion.

All because someone, once,
thought a little too deeply,
and dared to believe
that even the darkest heart
was once an angel, after all.