by Michael Plante

I plucked the eye of the cyclops
and swallowed it down with a cup of tea
stabbed the heart of darkness in the silence of the night
and brought home the demons
that have far too long played with the mind.

Never again shall I ask of more
for hunger drives the poet into madness.
Divulge your saddening mind upon my sheet of white
and rest assure the poet slays the things that play with the night.