Within These Labyrinths

Her love has left an exit wound, a ravenous cave. 'One name' enters, echoes, and begs still to be saved. It serpentines my heart, which now appears, leaden dark where only Mandrake roots or fern fronds debark inch any further growth within these labyrinths. The walls veer into form their sharp, jagged crypts: Each one a ledge twists and turns and falls off and on each, a memory clings like a tablecloth, damp linen, awaiting the head of John the Baptist blood dripping to the lower levels, unbalanced it's where my hand rests on an implement's stabbing blade knowing all is decayed has been dead for the last decade.