It's difficult to build the good to transcendence,
Easy to break down the average to dirt,
The demon sees only the latter, which will never gain
what Love requires, having only the currency of fear.
Knowing all, the limit is easy to limn. Beyonds beckon,
like a gorgeous siren, and the web-crawler notes longing
sparkling dew and plucked, this harp goes cosmic,
What of that, Demon? What of the stories of beyonds?
Here, you are.
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