The Beast’s Asleep

Don Meyer

The beast’s asleep. His black fur rises, falls.

He’s twice the size of you, or more. And though

His spiky collar’s chained to stony walls

He’s broken free before, as well you know.

Your flesh still bears the scars from when his jaws

Once dragged you to the edge of the abyss.

You still recall the searing slice of claws,

The terror of his eyes, his growl, his hiss.

Today he’s just asleep. You smell his breath,

You wonder at his slumber. Could it be

A sign of his senescence, nearing death?

But every time you think this, he breaks free.

In truth, this sleeping beast cannot be dead

As long as he exists inside your head.