The Hydra

Fine. I admit it. I am no match for this hydra,

No Hercules, I.

Not the wit to defeat the many headed beast

So I keep chopping. Why?

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Because virtue is it’s own reward? No.

Because god loves a trier? Ha!

Because if I believe in myself, anything is possible?

I’m not a child.

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Yet I keep the razor edged plates spinning,

Laugh mirthlessly as more plates are added.

I stand in the foothills and watch the pebbles

Tumble down the mountainside.

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But all the while my mind is free, soaring high up on a thermal

Watching a tiny figure below in the foothills

About to be buried by the avalanche

I’m glad I’m not him. It’s nice up here.

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And here is another figure surrounded by a field of spinning crockery.

How funny! Why does he not simply let them drop?

Does he not see that the more he does,

The more he is given to do?

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Onwards to a foetid lake, befouled with blood and floating reptilian heads.

A figure wearily flailing, sweaty, bloodied.

The end is near for him when the tether snaps taut,

I am yanked back

And the hydra strikes.