Monsters

Grendel the man-scathe

climbs from the dark, wet below

into my heart, my head;

 

fills my limbs with his weight:

his head breaks the moon on the mere

into a scatter of pieces of silver.

 

The footsteps of the Minotaur

echo in my inner labyrinths,

familiar with their pathways.

 

And sometimes your head is crowned

with angry serpents,

and you turn men into stone.

 

Full of sad appetites,

we wait for our redeeming heroes.