the minotaur

telling tales on the astral sails
that spin us out of memory.
gossamer thin, like a gentle sin,
worn, by a scorn, like emery

a kiss unfolds like a petaled thing
to fill our breath with an urgent wish
to lay amongst the crimson folds
that take us in hungers wolfish

and who will feed the Minotaur
as he wanders and wonders his fate
seeking while eking his substance
from shadows and whispers at the gate


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.