What beast is this that refuses to die,
keeps hunting flesh within my breast,
beats back those tools used to delay,
its steady march through every day.
When might the beast that squanders hope,
(left vainly waiting elusive rescue),
let go and move to richer fields,
now satisfied and strangely mute.
What could I say to send it clear,
to distract it from my scent and hue,
and standing very, very still,
escape its notice 'til it's gone.
But it won't go, not now or ever,
for the beast is mine, is me, is in me.
Of my creation, I feed and clothe it.
I let it stay and stay and stay.
This creature of my own making,
throws open wide the gates of love,
to let you in and in and in,
to let you mine the reaches within.