The Maze

How do you feel on the first
minute of waking from a twenty year thirst
filled with dreams of wine?

How is the taste of a day
that became dusk when you didn't realise
Magic'd away by unheard cries,
whose red shadows stalked that maze
you entered with passion and thrill,
but which trapped you all the same,
and supplied every joy and each pain
as you sought the middle.

It all looks so different now,
from the outside, the pretty patterns
that you carved in sincere decoration
because no-one else cared,
because no-one else could see
the dream you were seeking,
and were powerless to deter you anyway.

So it is with passion.

And now the night rages
to claw at your bones
And tease the last fragments of loss
from your wool,

but then, we all leave mazes
like spider's skins
that lie in the hope of love,
that wait for an archeologist
who can see the beauty that you saw
when you were young.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.