Labyrinth: the invisible intertwining of one road-path-lane to another, which then turns to another, and so on, till one encircles the system, and then, on a whim, veers straight into the middle of the first, and moves along with it, before branching off to another, an entirely new circuit, which did not exist before, but is now the very real ground on which she walks.

Her existence was written on this dust long before she willed herself astray but she is here now and that is what matters. Here she finds the breath of beginnings, the revivals of second comings and refuge in the going. This is however not the end, even though for every beginning there must be an end. For her, ends are not foretold.

But that is not the tragedy. The tragedy is that she knows where she came from and, despite that knowledge which few possess, is certain that she can never return there. The labyrinth has consumed her. She is an exile to herself and so has to travel on. Without end or beginning.

I find,

The glitter of her teeth
Is directly proportional
To the width of her grin
And a narrowing of chin

Also,

She has shallow sparkling eyes
Of raw want and feminine whys
Like cool blue in crimson skies
Like black nights and fireflies

And then,

The softness (and so innocence)
of her wheat-and-marble skin
Belies a surprising ability
And a fine propensity to sin