charvermont

After reading "Altars" by Austin Rodenbiker

This poem is sad 
and lonesome, 
sad and lonesome. 

Barely more than 
a list, an inventory 
of objects placed 
upon altars. 

The Labyrinth is now all I am; my entire being exists within these twisted marble walls. Sometimes I wonder if I am not more than another turn in the unending pathways of this place.

These last five years 
passed by quickly. 

I wonder if I observe 
time like the rocks do ––
everything can happen 
in no time at all and yet 
I remain unmoved;
I stay in the same position.

I
The more words I have, 
the less there is to say. 

II
Thinking has become an act of 
meditation in which I run my 
fingers through my hair, 

III
ruining the curls and forcing 

The eave outside my window is 
crowded with bunches of 
sharp, clear icicles. I like to 

Think of them as well meaning, as 
guarding me from danger. I am not 
sure what kind of menace