Inevitably There

I know of a monster

Who knows how to write

The poetry of beasts

The songs of demons

In languages unknown to everybody

Except myself.

Yes, myself.

For he is born inside

My broken spirit,

My empty heart,

My chaotic thoughts,

As I wandered in the wilderness

Of solitude in my bedroom

Lusting myself,

Kissing the mirror,

Feeling the warmth of the coldest touch

After being frozen in time

By my endless conversations

With the man

In the reflection.