The labyrinth that Daedalus designed
and built to house a misbegotten bull,
was crafted with imprisonment in mind:
its convolutions blind until a pull
upon a clue of thread revealed its ways,
bisecting mystery with nothing hard.
A king’s intent, in genius dreamt, a maze
by filament became a boulevard.

My labyrinth depends upon a chain,
corralling light instead of monstrous wrath.
Its form is a reminder, silver, plain,
that I interpret purpose in a path.
And obvious as beauty is my thread:
Abandon other work. Just step ahead.