Faustus

By Andrew R. Duckworth

The pull of that wicked angel,
When one drowns themself
In the pursuit of knowledge,
Grows strong,
As one ignores the shouts
Of the good angel,
And loves the whispers of the bad.

We destroy ourselves
In our prideful pursuits,
Writing our name in blood
For a deadly contract.

We destroy ourselves
In our prideful pursuits,
Curiosity gaining the better of us,
As we fall right into a devil’s lap.

The sound of those heavenly voices,
Fades away with deadly choices,
As the wicked grows loud
And the soul grows proud,
The demon making sure
You have at least one foot in Hell,
So you’re easier to pull down in the end.