The labyrinth
You seek a guide,
a ruby phoenix
rising in the swirling
maelstrom,
a blazing armory
in the pitch
to light the right
way forward.
It will burn these
high walls down,
if you ask it,
this ice-cold prison
of their making,
taking the pool
of voices, paper
cut-out faces.
In the labyrinth the
minotaur roars,
half-man, half-beast,
his hooves scuff
the dried red dust
of his enemies,
his hide etched with falsehoods.
The moon illuminates
his wrongs
as she drifts through
silver starlight.
Spirits wander the
twists and turns,
seeking their ancestors,
true answers,
writing on pages
made of air,
whispering secrets
the wind said.
At the entrance of this puzzled heart
Ariadne holds out
her ball of wall.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, November 18, 2022
No comments:
Post a Comment
Thanks for commenting :)