A Different Kind of Maze

Each year, the townspeople gather at the entrance of my maze to send down their sacrifices.

I can hear their cheering, as I run and scrape around corners, picturing the daylight that wash their faces. 

With a shove, the sacrifice

Bites and claws

And struggles to escape. 

In the end, it's a losing fight. The sacrifice is lost to the shiny black of the labyrinth's walls. Maybe there's something more to those walls. 

I eat because I'm hungry, they cheer because they're right. They only see the bull.

I can only see the walls.

Lately, though, the sacrifices have been more frequent. Far more than just

appeasement. 

One day, a sliver of light came from the door, and I caught the eyes of the leader. 

Sharp and righteous like a sword, he swung to door open and boldly stared me

down. 

Maybe a challenge, maybe a chance, I show him the bull. 

Perhaps he underestimated, maybe he wanted me gone, I charge.

Thrown aside, stomach to the sky he sees his last moments in my eyes,

but I let him be.

The only thing I was hungry for was the moonlight shining down on me. 

And now I watch as the sacrifices increase, more and more each day. Sacrifices

to a god who's no longer there. 

I can now, in the leader, the flourescent eyes of the bull. He points the finger,

and the townspeople run.

He says swing, the townspeople cheer.

But the townspeople, looking through a sheet of glass, 

only see the man.