A monster, from the humans and the gods,
Born into a line of royal blood,
Its features are grotesque and wild and odd
Its origins are vile. Its cold childhood
Is locked within a maze of giant stones.
Taught to kill for food and sport, and hence
It rages through the darkness all alone,
Sniffing at the air to catch a scent.
The Minotaur sees nothing more than death,
As innocents and virgins are all lead
Into the bowels of his boiling breath,
So to meet their end by his horned head.
Each hour’s is like the last, time after time,
Trapped inside this evil pantomime.
Robert Grant is a writer of both free and classical verse. he has had two collections published, ‘The Judas Tree’, (2013), and ‘Night Haunting’, (2015). You can read and hear more of his work by following the links on his twitter account