My voices echo within a labyrinth.
Scraps of some other’s stories without form
return as someone else’s dark whispers
where all our monsters are of my making.
My lies breathe wetly in the dark where
I take up my veins like a woolen skein
to braid these lonely secrets from my heart
to some broken cross I drag though the night.
There are not any guides to trace the way,
no straight lines to unravel obliquely
as if some kind of redemption were there
waiting for love and forgiveness for all.
Hope is the final lie, the last true lie:
the sun breaks over the trees without us.