There is a Cerberus in me,
chained, like a captive.
The breathing of the anxious beast,
it makes my head quake when I forget
about getting old or watching lovers die.
The three heads argue with themselves
in my stomach, rattling my bones,
pulling on the chains, trying to agree.
The more I sit still, the more it wants
me to just go and never stop,
to keep running and running
in three different directions,
against my instinct. Whenever I stop,
to catch my breath, I feel the teeth
ripping at anything that they can reach.
The beast that guards the gates of hell
has dug a hole inside my inhibitions.

I feel lonely often.
I feel like the tide pulling back,
on every single day,
that I don't get
a minute to myself.
I feel like the white rabbit,
the clock is always ticking
and my heart beats fast
tap
tap
tap
to the rhythm of aging.
The breathing of the anxious beast
holds me close to it's lungs
like chains on a captive.

constantly confessing sins
      never knowing forgiveness
like a man with a book
      but unable to read
or a fool hoarding gold
      and dying from hunger

enslaved to the pride of life
       the measure of men
of winning and success
      compelled to boast
the works of one's arms
      flaunting wit, or foolishness

but oblivious to the exposure
      of their nakedness and vulgarity
of pain and confusion
      of faith in their strength and wit
of the Mark of Man
      on their arms and foreheads

believing by strength of will
      what is given and not by works
the soul betraying the flesh
      in double mindedness and hypocrisy
seduced by free will
      but enslaved to another's will

but the further apart,
      the more fervent
to execute the command
      to impose commands
on their neighbours
       when the only command is love

by the measure they measure
      they are measured
for they have become
      the enemy they condemned
and judgement is just
      for evil judges evil

His spectral stride was not the worst of him.
His stoic face was a flawless slab of stone.
His rending claws slipped idly within his pockets.

As if extensions of his sheathed talons, on either side of the ghoul was a hound of hell.

The beasts could not look more different, save for their crimson eyes which sang of the gallows.

The worst had indeed arrived.
Each patient step glided after the other.
With no word, with no tempo, with no sign.
The dance of grimaced howls and fangs began.