As Wrote The Monk To The Temptress

I shall not grace you with formal greeting, for you are no maiden, nor are you queen.

The Lord's House is my safe haven, yet never before have I wished to be so consumed by the fires of Hell. I sit on the pew in my church but it is the Devil who stands in front of me: oh how he wears your face, your eyes, your smile! If only he had taken me for his own a long time ago, I would not be so afraid of this mockery.

I tell myself I am a noble man, but confound me to the very bone, I fear my soul to be tainted, my will twisted. Strange are the ways in which one can be compelled to act!  

Witch! Curse you, and all your kind. What manner of blasphemy is it, that spurs your very existence? What purpose have you, besides leading good men astray? How did it come to be that I crossed your path, even met your gaze, that heaven on Earth to be bargained for eternal torment? 

Is it love, this fit which has now come over me? Nay, it is poison that courses through my veins, a draught made from the very fangs of hellish serpents. Even now as I go to my slumber, I feel their infernal writhing deep within me, taking me to the depths of Tartarus even as I am in Elysium. 

Sin doth make fools of us all. Once the deed be done, was there ever a winged sprite descended from Hell for his own amusement? Nay, I reckon the whisper is of my soul, in its yearning to breathe in the mortal air, lest the ravages of conscience be too suffocating for it.

 Sometimes with an end one instead hopes to hasten a beginning but it is here I must put down my pen and break your spell. Too long indeed, have I tarried.