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…

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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.