The Labeled Labyrinth
In a hall of numbered desks,
a thousand eyes, yet none speak—
the hiring silence, thick as wax. I shuffle relics, tags, and codes,
chasing order that keeps slipping,
a clockless day of futile grace. Then laughter—
sharp, unmoored, a sudden storm—
and I laugh back, louder, wilder,
asking why, with all this lightning,
we still pin names to every spark. No women turn;
they burn inside me now.
The room dissolves in embered mirth. The athlete wakes.
The fire is mine.