The wanderer cloaks the moonlit path a stormy blue.
They have been here before, this string in their hand
Surrounded by finely trimmed hedges
And gossamer busts of strangers.
It is dark. And dark means sleep.
But without the distractions of the day, the jagged path, the endless labyrinth, what more is there to do than crouch in a hallow and cry.
The wanderer lets the tears spill,
Like a broken fountain the flow of water sputters and spills over their cheeks
Coating the dirt and foliage below with sticky bittersweet remorse.
The wanderer does not want to sleep.
They follow the string in their hand
Down the same path they've been on time and time again.
They've been here for years, being led by their past decisions.
Feigning ignorance and indifference to the existence beyond the path.
Never letting go of the string.