The factory whistle

More than fears grow.

In the labyrinth where years are measured in
moss on the wall and
where the mighty call
the shield of truth is no protection.

falsehoods twist through the corridors
and swirl in the mist

Kingdoms for an honest answer are
not easy to come by,
the knight at the helm steers blindly.

The underground bazaar takes
a lightning strike
a hundred thousand followers and
one like on Facebook,
the tents look ragged in the moonlight
but no one sees them
the caverns are loud with an untimely
crowd and
those who appear at the time of the

I have lost myself in time for all time,
to find me is Herculean
but one more task to undertake,
and even though Atlas
is lost in the pages of almanacs
we turn over a leaf in search of an Autumn.

I grow cactus,
a plus
in the desert.

© 2018, John Smallshaw.