I was born into an endless maze,

like the one people drag pencils through.

Dawning a facade of hope each night,

waking to the same walls unmoved.


The thick grey hedges grew tall,

taller each day.

Not a sunlit filter of leaves

but a wall opaque and faint.


Everything an ebbing deception.

A brilliant ray of contrasting white,

the sudden edge of a greying shadow

objects of failing imagination.


Looking to the sky to the soaring birds,

yearning to be but themselves

as the stars ice over darkness

into a blissful escape they delve


and realize


the reason for the dark clouds

raining tears of bitter memory,

is that we live no longer in a maze

but a circle –– of loss, of poverty.


The paths that stray

are clouded with mist,

leading only to pain

still penniless.


The teardrop lets go its final thread

and it sends a ripple across the sky.

The sun cast its response,

shooting a ray wide and high.


Perhaps we claim this flash blinds our narrow minds,

or the mist clouds our earnest sight,

or the rain closes our parochial hearts,

or the darkness forbids our competent height.


Yet all are lies,

but the fault lies not within our sense,

but within our mind

where we refuse to make amends.


Forever in this cornerless circle,

first step they walked, first day they talked

homeless, powerless and jobless,

only hope and love they sought.


A pencil in hand,

a hedge axe on our side,

yet we stand


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