Another Labyrinth Poem by Scott Minar

Theseus the King looked out his little window.
His ankle was hurting again
and that picture of his wife kept falling
out of his trousers.

Long nights in the dark, weeping
into his bowl made of some poor creature's skull.

Like the way his shadow
sometimes went on without him—

or a painting would appear
on a wall his hand just left.

He was mostly blinded by things.
When his childhood teacher found him
weeping against a larch tree
he thought he would almost vanish
into history.

Then a sound came from his mouth,
a little herd of deer tramping through the forest
of eternity. And he breathed, like a prophet,
I no longer know if I'm inside the labyrinth
or the labyrinth is in me.