Manticore

It smiles with swords | it snarls and sings,
and I weep for what | I once would’ve been.
Its teeth tear | my tender torso,
gnashing, gnawing | knowing nothing.
It clatters the cage | until bars crack,
pacing and prowling | within my prison.

It’s a monkey | or a monster,
or a lion | or a liar:
Its familiar face | fools foes,
but lustrous fur | wraps its lupine length.
I watch it wait | and while I weary
it sits and stares | with still eyes.

I can’t keep | the key secure;
I’ve failed to feed | the feral fiend,
and so it swells | in starving need
for fighting | and feasting
on traitors | and tricksters
who give it scraps | for gleeful games
they passively play | while I placate it.

Its simmering smile | is a human simile—
a Cheshire changeling | chained to my chest.
It earns my trust. | It urges me
to unleash | its unlawful lust
for doom’s dance. | I deny its due,
but I am too tired | and tests have tried
my grip’s | growing
weakness. |