My labyrinth is 33 blue lines, stretched
from one edge of whiteness to the other,
and my words, the coiled string—
the indigo ink of my pen guides,
weaves through the maze, intertwined
with perilous thoughts,
engraved in my mind.
Every arc leaves a blotched trail…
(of hunchback “c’s” and spiney “l’s”).
As words inscribe themselves
between the walls of lined corridors,
you, the feral beast, are spotted,
half-man, half-bull.
When we expose our swords,
the duel commences with the gash of a blade.
Criticism pierces the middle of the page,
stabs my flailing and stuttering words;
you bite the string in two,
and it falls, shrivels to the ground.
(Without the words I am stuck).
A burning indigo outlines my heart,
bleeds from the core and dampens my clothes.
I lay half-lifeless, and fatigue washes through my body—
you wait to conquer my thoughts.
I am growing weary with the color indigo,
and the feud of language,
and when my sailors lift the black sails,
there will be no mistake.