The Cave of Hypnos: Early Poems
Panikon Deima
Charles W. Bailey, Jr.
Night flows
through the streets.
The stream rushes faster,
the trees are swallowed.
The moon drifts
into blackness
like a butter balloon.
Silvered by moonlight,
a god walks.
His horns are knives
that rend the soul.
Men see him and flee.
Forever seeing
their own eyes,
they are lost
in a maze
of mirrors.
Fleece falls thick
over his shanks.
His hands move
in an alphabet of light.
Night moves before him
like an obedient tidal wave.
Hush.
If we listen closely,
if we listen closely,
we will hear
his cruel laugh
roll from our own lips.
Copyright © 2012 by Charles W. Bailey, Jr.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License.