Within These Labyrinths Poem by Mark Heathcote

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.