Baphomet

If I take one look...

If I take one look 
           at this mangled 
form wreathed in 
     writhing vines climbing 
     over and creeping 
  underneath my attempts 
            at some semblance of 
    decency. At the clawing 
chaos of my interior, 
     the horror of its twisted 
   sprawl. This contorted 
  chimaera, goat-crowned 
back arching with the ache 
of being so… 
     lost.
Labyrinthine, the foot-
            worn cobble and tar 
of my backroads and alleys 
that wrap themselves 
     intestine-like and populate 
the helical nooks 
         and crannies of my 
uncharted mind. 
        Roads that turn on 
     themselves in spirals 
and lead, ultimately, 
   to here.
To this jungle shrine—
      primeval green, ancient 
and moss-infested. Still 
            primal, sitting halfway 
into the gaping maw 
      of darkest consciousness, 
where sits Baphomet, 
throned in ruin 
                and wet vegetation. 
Attended to by cave-spiders 
     and the other blind, pale 
               and ugly things I, 
so dapperly, convey 
   as middle-class mobility, 
as business casual 
           and a winning smile.
I—Baphomet, 
who wears a crown 
          of Demodex, 
and holds court so garbed 
           in Staphylococcus 
and Propionibacterium, 
    tongue-lolling, feral 
openly mocking 
    the trappings of care.

If I take one look at that...