He Who Fights Monsters

How shall I chart the dark night’s lunar sea
Whose waves define the tides inside my mind,
With ebbs and flows that toss and turn with glee
And linger longer than the chains that bind?

Where atlas, compass, sextant are no aid;
In evil vaults where stars are scared to shine;
Here tears and screams once birthed so quickly fade
As hope drowns lonesome, swallowed down by brine.

I’ve raced before the tempest wind so long
My hull is breached beyond my skill to caulk.
No map for me, I chase a siren song
To straits so dire that all but monsters balk.

On wings of wax and feather I now see:
There is no abyss but the one in me.

Ryan Stone

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