What is lost
   can never be found
      in the labyrinth of the mind.  

What was it you were seeking
   in this dark and dusty atmosphere?
Now doomed, you are, to find it;
   for you never will escape
The twist and turns of your
   mangled memory;
For what path is there to take?

Your string has been cut by the
   Brute
      Bullheaded
          Beast

Turn  corners
   Just to find dead ends,
Turn back
   To find them gone
With every disconnect
   recollected before dawn.

Then at the Sun’s behest
   The dew turns to rolling fog
     And that, which once was settled,
        Escapes upon the wind