The Mark of the Demon King

We could all be brutes you see,
great powerful brutes hunched and muscle bound,
so writhing in rage that every movement would
be a clap of thunder or a mountain falling.
If we allowed ourselves the voices of monsters.
Locked away in corners and pillars of some
hidden mausoleum.
War and physical tests would rule our social
circumference. Our blood would measure our worth
as it sprayed in elegant spouts through sand and pavement.
We tried that already in the old world,
to not much success. Where is it?
Or better that our inner competition be built in the shadows
like glowing castles with battlements riddled with
trap doors. It could be hidden till it grows, a
twisted visage that smiles when you peer at it but slowly grins
wickedly when you turn your back.
Documents compiled in fluorescent shadows
would tear down our psyche without any defense
to be thrown up half-heartily.
Problems would might run a little wild
If we held the rage in, but it would bleed out,
like a wisp of smoke cupped between your hands.
Either or we're all marked by each
opposing force. We're all marked well and good
by the demon, the competitive one,
king among them all
competition
is the mark of the demon king.