What is it I keep in the center of my labyrinth?
The letters on the spines of the books on my shelf?
The secrets I keep unknown, even to myself?
All the potions that will cure me, or simple absinthe?
What are the contours of the walls seen from overhead?
How high I launch my mind with mighty escapism?
How bright is the fall, with light scattered through prisms?
Until you reach the darkness, the center of my dread?
Mazes made for a reason, do you understand?
To keep safe what’s most valued? Or hide what is most base?
In a world where both are the same, you’ll find the rat race
Questions neverending supplanting all demands.
What is it I search for? Where my Daedalus?
Who designed this latest monstrosity?
Puzzling and exhausting me
With many ways in but no way out
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