Perhaps I'd be good for the devil —
not with a sword, not with holy water,
but with thoughts so tangled,
he'd sit down mid-evil-laugh,
rub his temples, and ask for a coffee.

I'd ramble about forgiveness,
about grief growing into roses,
about storms that accidentally water gardens.
Maybe — just maybe —
he'd drop his pitchfork, sigh heavily,
and Google "how to redeem yourself in 10 easy steps."

Picture it:
the Prince of Darkness,
wearing reading glasses,
holding a cracked mirror,
wondering if he should start a podcast
about second chances.

All because someone, somewhere,
overthought everything,
and figured even the devil
was just a stressed-out angel
with bad career choices.