A slow tempest moves and rages
Deep within my chest. It smoulders
Like embers that should die but won't.

That storm speaks to me so clearly,
It whispers in my ear of how
I am the devil trapped in flesh.

It feels like the world is my fault,
As though every pain and sadness
Owed to my awfully gleeful work.

But that's just an illusion.
This is what I assure myself
Though I know it is fully true.

I cannot face God as I am
For I fear that I am Satan.
Thus I am left with a guilt that lives.