Quiet footsteps

Take their leave through my maze,

A crescendo to forte at times,

Piano at others.

These footsteps search for the center,

The meaning, for all mazes must have one.

Others say it is pointless

To search,

Only enjoy the wonders seen throughout

Yet these hopefuls continue.
I am a weary traveler

Among the paths they have carved

Yet no more do the paths lead to answers

Than before they were forged.

This maze is my life

And I worship its meaning;

I scour for answers,

For questions, mere reprimands

In my ears,

For there isn’t time.

What is time if not an elastic, however, 

Stretching long in parts of the universe,

Short in others,

Conforming to its keeper’s wishes.

I wonder if time has ever pondered its purpose,

Its duty to the galaxies,

As have I. 

My meaning must be faint, for all the 

Infinite organisms in our worlds,

Yet it must exist.

How will I know why I am?

How will I know what I am here to do?

For surely,

My meaning cannot revolve around a boy,

Childishly sitting on my corneas,

My cerebrum,

My entity.

My meaning cannot revolve around a building,

Storing me, containing me, yet not,

Never “teaching” me,

As it claims.

My meaning certainly cannot revolve around Genesis,

An allusion to the letters which are said to define me,

Dine with me, A main course, Becoming of Class.

“Genesis” is a word meant to signify new beginnings,

Yet, my beginnings cannot be so shallow.

The mystery of life intrigues me,

Yet, sitting in my room,

Papers awaiting my pencil’s scribble,

I look out and crave more.

I must have meaning,

For the blandness which encompasses my entity,

Fills the spaces between my neurons,

Like bacteria under my fingernails and

Mites on my eyelashes,

Cannot be all I will be worth.

Cannot be all I am worth.

The maze of my life is not a straight line, no;

But what will my center be?

The only certainty is that
I will not find it in this structured existence I live.

In which I simply exist,

Without meaning.