i retreat in fear, by a
green and brush heavy
labyrinth among pillars
by the sea, like a pier;
although these pillars do
not hold up life,
but darkness, above my head,
within the labyrinth, a
resting place for madness
which if activated could harm
me; i run, with my
eyes agape, and at its end,
i find a cottage, looking in
not in my sight but their
existence in wicked emerald glow
of nocturnal eyes, the
others catch my face
a father rises angrily to
protect his daughters, bolting hammers
rubber, cast and carpenter at my
child sized head — afraid
i return the way i came,
through the dark
brush and green and rusted elbows, returning
i am no longer a believer but a
victim of an emancipated reality, of a low ceiling,
or a place one could drown in.
