Within These Labyrinths Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

Love has left an exit wound, a ravenous cave.
'One name' enters, echoes, and begs still to be saved.
It's 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 forms, 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 and implements a stabbing blade.
Knowing all is decayed has been dead for the last decade.