We feared the wind when it came unbound,
it tore through rooftops, split the ground.
It spared the cruel, took babes instead,
and flung them to the river’s bed.

So we gave the wind a face, a name
to shield ourselves from nameless shame.
Spirit. Omen. God. A sign.
Not to change it—just define.

For pain with meaning hurts us less
than chaos cloaked in randomness.

When lightning struck a sleeping man,
we blamed it on a god’s dark plan.
A child was born without her sight
we said her mother failed the rite.

When drought devoured ten long years,
we answered skies with blood and spears.
Called the clouds a womb too dry
to drop her sorrow from the sky.

But prayers fell flat, and bulls all bled,
and still the sky looked down, not red.
So we split heaven, drew a line
one god for wrath, and one divine.

One to cradle, one to break,
one to give and one to take.
One for love, and one to blame
for knives that come with passion's name.

We built our myths to rest at night,
to dim the chaos with a light.
To say "there's order in the storm"
not random death, but wrath with form.

We gave evil hands and breath,
and dressed him in a court of death.
Not an accident, but will
a mind that plots, a vow to ****.

We gave him names: the snake, the sin,
the voice that speaks when trials begin.
Adversary. Shadow king.
The whisperer of every thing.

Oh, the play we wrote was grand:
a silver tongue, a fiery hand.
A trickster clothed in law and lies,
with deals that glint in mortal eyes:

"You need not wait for heaven’s gate
I’ll give you now, you skip the wait.
Beauty, power, gold and fame
just sign your breath, just speak my name."

And we said yes, again, again.
Not fooled—just tired, just weak from pain.
We longed for what he promised near,
and needed someone else to steer.

But here's the twist: he doesn’t win.
He knows the fire waits for him.
He gets his spoils, counts his cost
knowing the war is already lost.

We think he hoards our souls like gold,
but maybe he just hates the role.
Maybe he's tired, trapped in script
a villain cast who can't resist.

Yet still he comes, and still he speaks
at dusk, in banks, in tangled sheets.
Still makes the deal, still signs the slip,
still presses fire to the lip.

Because someone must wear the mask.
Someone must answer when we ask
Why mothers die with screams unheard,
and tyrants rot with riches earned.

Why children starve while angels weep,
and prayers dissolve in dreamless sleep.
Why saints go mad, and just men fall
again,
and then again,
and all.

We say it's him. It helps us cope.
We clothe despair in scarlet hope.
We give our dread a face, a flame
a throne, a crown, a hated name.

But maybe Satan’s just a role
a mirror cast within the soul.
A shrug from nature, dark and bare,
or worse—ourselves,
just standing there.