Is Mephistopheles the muse when the words in your mind fuse?
Or is it the spirit of heaven, that makes the words become liven?

Which question should I answer? Which outfit should I wear?
To call myself a poet and the words I utter poetry?
A lot of poets come and go, with their minds full of con and pro,
but the question remains with no answer, Which outfit should I wear?

Mephistopheles takes the mind to the darkness and the bind,
It fills it fully with dread, is this the path to tread?
The darkness fills with mystery, your words and your poetry;
It fills the mind with unknown, for the sake of that to be known.

It is the ground you need for the things you intuit,
It is the thing you should avoid, for not to be trapped in void,
The voice of your deep desire that sets the depth on fire,
The voice of what is known for the sake of the unknown.

The spirit is the light; it makes everything bright,
so bright that makes you fail to find the path to trail.
It is the light that does emerge from the center and the verge,
It shows everything there is, but it’s no end and no ease,

It is silent; it is pain; it is fixed and it drains,
It is the silent verbose, it is the crazy calm,
the elegantly constructed Rose, it is as clear as the palm.
It is the voice of the unknown for the sake of that to be known,
To show what shouldn’t be known to know what is the unknown.