Before I read the newest Nora Roberts novel (I get paid to do so; shut up), a NaPoWriMo offering:
I have written of facing a hydra
The thing has blood enough
To fuel all of the new heads
Two emerging for every one I strike off
Because I cannot bear a brand so quickly
As to sear the stumps I leave behind
With each stroke of the sword's superior
It does not help that I do not carry a torch
So much as nurse a small fire
Built from dry dung
Smoldering sullenly in small batches
While still-liquid piles scraped together
Sit in the sun and stink
As they slowly desiccate
Waiting for me to pick through them
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