Maze of Thought

Inside the skull’s old mansion, rooms collapse into corridors that never seem to end,
Every door opening on the same blank question: what if, what then, what did I pretend?
The thoughts do not march in order, nor obey; they wind and slither, coil and split,
A thousand-headed snake, a party of strangers talking at once, refusing to ever quit.
Webs glisten in the mental gloom, each thread spun from days unlived and words unsaid,
Tangles of memory and hope, snaring the steps, leaving the living to haunt the dead.
Daylight does little to clear the maze–shadows deepen, old quarrels dress up as guides,
And every shortcut is just another loop, every promise a corridor where another secret hides.

Self-doubt walks beside me, hand on my shoulder, narrating each stumble, each breath,
Feeding on the anxious sweat of decision, teaching the tongue a new language of death.
Escape is a rumor, a myth passed down from braver men or luckier fools,
But most of us just pace the same stretch, counting the cracks, rewriting the rules.
Still, somewhere between the confusion and the ache, a stubborn spark endures–
Not hope exactly, but the raw hunger to outlive the ghosts, to make peace with the lures.
One day, the maze may break beneath a rush of wild laughter or a sudden, honest cry,
And the walls will tumble–not to reveal paradise, but just the simple, brutal sky.
Until then, I run my hands along these familiar walls, reading their Braille of pain and desire,
Determined that if I must be lost, I will be lost as myself, not as the liar.