The devil wears a suit and tie—
pressed clean,
smiling easy,
knows exactly how to sound reasonable.
He doesn’t knock things over.
He rearranges them.
Calls temptation opportunity,
calls control love,
calls silence peace
while he’s draining the room of air.
He shakes hands,
looks you in the eye,
tells you everything you want to hear
right before he takes
everything you didn’t know
you were giving away.
The devil doesn’t scream.
He persuades.
He waits until you’re tired,
until you’re lonely enough
to mistake charm for safety
and confidence for truth.
He wears a suit and tie
because evil learned
it doesn’t need horns
when it has credibility.
It doesn’t need fire
when it has patience.
And by the time you notice the cost,
you’re already wondering
how you ever thought
he was on your side.
Through the Fog 