Ghost of a flea

I met them at the gate though I usually wait inside. Preoccupied with their own throughts, impatient, like so many children, they didn't see who I really was. They never noticed my crown, my pain, the fire in my eyes.
Like all others they think the Maze was made for them; actually, it is the other way around. They think I am some poet who will lead them through the symbols and spaces of this Underworld. They think I will teach them lessons. They should call me Cerberus...I am the lesson.