Bull and China

I am full of sharp corners
and hidden stairways.
The place that houses me
is a maze of neurons
and synapses in perpetual misfire.
I have bumbled and raged
down every blind alley
a Minotaur misunderstood
bawling destruction and mayhem
one moment, and the next
singing the stars down from the night
sky, a mess of shining and strangeness.

Moody Minotaur, so stoked for battle;
the sword has not been made
that cleaves my heart.
Only isolation can do that.
A friendless night stuns me,
drives me back to the maze
and banishes the beast.
Sloping off into solitude
balling myself up under the stairs
or tiptoeing, cloven-hoofed
across the beams of the attic (creak/screak)
while in the dining room below
a family pauses at dinner to look up
and listen, their forks frozen halfway
to their mouths, their eyes
wide with wonder
while I breathe so softly--and wait
to hear the clatter of silverware
on china.

KB© 2/20/2014


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