Borrowed John Green's Words, Looking for Alaska

You carry the thread of red sentiment, a cord bleeding.
Each Volta you make is measured by its expanse,
and the walls elicit remembrance of the hurt,
reflecting your possessed pastel face.  
This passage is not a labyrinth of pebbles,
but one of piercing rumors and cob-webbed roots,
and every step you take, you are drawn in place.
The features you embrace are impotent here,
sketched with ancient haunts and a legend of what was spoken for.
It is a point, not a principle.
The only winning way to move is not ahead, but to fall,
to the heart of the Minotaur that plagues your caverns,
the one you posit and feed with resentful meals.   
Pardon is not the killing of the beast,
but the loosening of the blood.
It is the preference to look away from the features,
to feel the phantom weight lift from your embodiment.
It is the deed of offering that red cord an absolute, genteel tug,
not to drag them back, but to appoint yourself free.
And then, in the quiet of the freed realm,
you can listen to the fiction of a novel path.
Not a way alfresco, but a way through adagio,
where the walls dissolve into a horizon of spectral light,
and the labyrinth itself becomes a garden grown with gratuity, of staying alive, 
for that is the only way out of the labyrinth of suffering, is to forgive.

encouragingenduranceintegritylifeprose

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