Labyrinth
What
was I
before
being me?
What
would remain
when
I'll cease to be?
In
the midst of
these
two sphinxes
sands
of life slip through
my
purlicue and plicae
I
am a Minotaur
of
guilt and doubt!
When
will I be set free?
I
am crowned with
a
wreath of thorns!
Is
this my lethal legacy?
Wounded
Ever-raw
wounds of mind
will
bleed one
to
death, whatever
be
the count of
breaths
remaining
anamneses
overrun
as
festering maggots
sobs
die off and
resume
relentlessly.
Why does my bosom
smell
like a rotten
potato?
On
a foggy dawn
I
strive to
make
a poem
words
stream
from
my quill
as
I see those
embers
of Sun
dribble
through
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