The twisting, turning, endless corridors—
No means to mark my way along the floor
except to open up my aching wound—
Such desprate means! Already I have swooned
and laid upon my stony path, near dead—
the feast of carrion—the murder’s bread—
but startled by their pecks, I moaned and woke;
all round black feathers and each awful croak—
Dizzy and weak I lean against a wall
in case my knees buckle and let me fall.
Above, the eager flutter of their wings—
How sharp! the cut across my hand still stings!—
Ahead, a trail of red, a line of gore—
Accursed circuit!—I’ve bled this way before.
I’ve Bled This Way Before
Tale Told 