In a scramble of words, there must be an entrance,
A large opening or a crawl space hidden by rubble
With only the rush of cool air as a telltale sign
Of the subterranean darkness that shuns light
And reeks of foreboding.
Yet there may be ciphers on the walls,
Prehistoric hand prints, pictographs, and
petroglyphs,
Signs left by the first minds for others to follow into
Networked corridors with strange columns and
crystals,
Underground streams, and unconscious formations.
For beneath the surface lie fragile outlines,
Obscured by firelight’s mysterious shadows,
Weathered, cavernous underpinnings that slowly erode,
Sculpting out of stone the structures that we see,
Labyrinths secluded, unthreaded, and unsolved whose
Minotaurs are concealed while explorers
Wander endlessly through passages of art.
© cmheuer, 2016
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