The Minotaur Hunt

 

You get a single ball of twine,

A single sword, a single chance,

And every single step you take

Is one more step towards your fate.

 

Down there the air is thick as rock,

The cold is rotten, damp with slime.

The smell crawls through you,  coats your mind.

Down there your only friend is fear.

 

And in your hand that ball of twine –

A point of day imbued with flight –

Like air in lungs it has its time,

And step by step the ball unwinds.

 

You hear the breath and know it’s time.

You stop and wait for death’s red eyes.

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