The Wooden Portal

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.


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