In The Labyrinth

The pungent smell of dry
smoldering leaves, greet you
when you cross the road.

The knower has become
unknowable and I start collecting
the pebbles, a remimder
of lost childhood.

Somebody has kidnapped the
art of the nocturne. The
songbird will never find the moon.

When you are under attack
you run faster,
to drink the speed of dust.

It was a case of intimidation.
Invisible ghosts were demanding
their bricks of gold.