My threadbare clothes hang loose
as if on some ill-stuffed scarecrow
and I am made of mud and sticks
stuck in this labyrinthine knot
with no sword to strike it asunder
and an ever-growing fear of the thing that stalks me
I am prey to its hunger and bestial greed
my compass does not work
spinning circles into nowhere
directionless as a lost lone swallow
but I too would fly from here
but my wings have vanished
wax melted when I flew so close to your sun
and the thing draw closer as I hear its breath
to mutilate and maim, crush and contuse
until these threadbare clothes hang loose
from nothing but broken twigs and dust
I cannot fly, nor walk, but barely crawl
when the tide returns and the Styx overflows
I will drown in that icy deluge
perhaps better that than wait on this beast
with its ravening hunt and fetid wheeze
Charon awaits his due

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