“The Secret of the Minotaur:” a poem

The Secret of the Minotaur

Stardust on pale skin,

soaked to the bone,

through dark passages

we arrive at a place of truth.

I can never forget

the one who sharpened your horns

put them there in the first place,

withholding the sacrifice and

cursing your tired head forever

to restless nights alone in the dark.

I ask again, “Who is the monster?”

The story is cleaner

if we do not know your name

and only see you tucked away

at the end of that serpentine path,

with walls so soaked with souls,

rivulets of memory run down,

puddling on the stone floor,

where the red thread stretches.

I do not know if we fear

what we do not know,

but I know we fear

what we do not want to face,

and this is you, Asterius,

the starry one

cloaked behind thick clouds.

And there you stand, even now,

waiting for that encounter

with a seeker,

come not to conquer or kill

but to face themselves,

for that is the truth of you. 

So let me walk slowly

towards myself,

tracing my fingers over 

the pock-marked wall of my heart

because at this moment

I can only imagine

your emerald eyes.

–Stuart Higginbotham