In the labyrinth, the sword waits, 

its blade kissed by the shadow of Daedalus. The walls hum with the force of those forgotten, where the Minotaur prowls, not with famine, but lust for the silence that follows a god's curse. 

​

The pen, anointed in the blood of Icarus, 

slashes the air, seeking significance. 

It trembles—half-forged, 

as if already acquainted with the bitter taste of destiny, the way Theseus felt, before the thread unraveled. 

​

Each word carved into the stone 

is an echo of a promise broken— 

the labyrinth a maze not of walls, 

but of time, ever shifting, 

its paths as erratic and unfinished as fate itself. 

​

The beast rests, but not in the darkness. 

It lingers in the pauses, 

in the spaces between the doubts in thoughts, where the hand falters and the mind forgets that even gods are bound by limits. 

​

The sword is a tale half-told, 

a battle not yet fought, 

and the Minotaur, not a creature, 

but a question that gnaws at the soul: 

Where is the end of this? 

​

And so the pen slips, 

its ink dripping like the tears of Ariadne, 

the labyrinth elongating before it in a viselike grip, its rising walls unyielding, 

its silence louder than any roar.