The Labyrinth

New York, an inexhaustible city
A labyrinth of endless possibilities
No matter which way he turned
Or how well he came to know
Various neighbourhoods and streets
It always left him feeling lost

Lost, not only in the physical sense
But also lost within himself
Wandering aimlessly, all places equal
It longer mattered where or who he was
Sometimes he felt that he was nowhere
But he had no intention of leaving

In the past he’d been more ambitious
Even published several volumes of poetry
But quite abruptly that had changed
A part of him had died
And he didn’t want it coming back to haunt him
It was then that he took the name of his father

Now he was no longer that person
The person that could write poems
Although he continued to exist
He no longer existed for anyone but himself
He no longer wished to be dead
But he didn’t care to be alive either
He was in a limbo of his own creation

It had been more than ten years now
He didn’t think about it much anymore
Recently he’d removed the photos
Of his mother from the lounge
Once in a while he’d suddenly feel
What it felt like to hold her
But it was not really remembering