Analysis of Monster

Over hills growing like the dawn,
tones of my voice with the wind gone,
oft at night fetes despite the chase,
it is perched, jaws wide, stern face.
Spinning a wheel, flax, and a shear
grips his hands and glares like a spear.

Generous spring held not the rain,
young fields now grinded dust of grain,
farmers reap but shriveled stalk,
fearful maidens windows caulk,
one sound aught heard on a path,
eyes scarlet shone struck with deep wrath.

In the romp can we foresee
the far distance of the sea?
Amid the shore of our soul,
ere it little so as a knoll
stands, waves rising a dying roll

as values, each looks to guide,
a crisis stems, and we decide
to be a hero, brimmed the breast,
or thrust a sword in our chest;
spinning a wheel, flax, and a shear
grip the hands, glare like a spear.