Self-Portrait

“…No love!” he wails, the bleating of a lamb

enwrapped in bleeding pelts of wolves, still hot,

still shaking from the hunt. He adds, “God, damn!”

“God, damn all apex predators I’m not!”

He cuts the head ‘twould eat him, plucks the eyes

to substitute his own, and dons his mask.

One might not know by sight, but when he cries

not lamb nor wolf would even think to ask

if he were one of their or either’s fold.

Chimera, head of death and jaws of life,

the Narcissus alone, with lips of gold,

will sing you poetry and be your wife.

The one who kills the demons in his head

will wake to find his dreams for Earth are dead.