By Josué Vargas

Cold drops fall in scarred fur,
The fur of a faint beast, who’s seen too many moons
through the fractures in the rocks
Tired of seeking release,
from the vicious whispers
and the stench of the catacombs
No human hand forged this realm,
no creature enters the same room twice
Accursed with a human heart,
too eager to find bliss, glory, or light
or the earthly pleasures and rewards
that await the children of man
Yet, in the shape of a horrid creature, it dwells
Can’t bear the sight of its own face
as it bends painfully to lick water from a pond
When its muzzle descends to the rusted smell of the rock
It knows otherwise…
The vision of the winged man, shining in the forest night,
stepping out of the huge crack of a living tree.
The wooden portal, the right to blossom,
the expectation of a heart misplaced,
among fur and fangs,
and the vile catacombs
Home to every death and fright.