In shadows that fear wove without compare, A mischievous imp began to prowl there. With horns of obsidian and a scoffing grin, His evil deeds he would sell, in the night and within.

His wicked bargains, of a sugary taste, Promise fortunes, power, and glory in haste. But naïve souls who sign with such speed, Forget the true cost, the hidden reward they'd heed.

At the end of the pathway, when the deal is fulfilled, They take the poor soul, the goodness that's killed. The moral is clear, carved out of coal: That the sparkle of evil is but a vain goal. What is easily gained, the shadow will claim, And the sold-off soul can never reclaim.


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Done in Poser 7 and Photoshop
2010 oldies.