Girando, As Observed By A Passerby

It was the second sunday of the longest month

when something began to twist

there stood in envoidened space

a curved arrow

emblazoned in ancient script

by use of a forbidden alphabet

one ear cupped forward, obsessively

there there

I went

down

down

down

behind a darkened threshold

a turn of four rights

to a forgotten grove

masquerading as that elusive dot

It left me, unfortunately it seems

with a question mark head

and a lie of purpose

spinning inside

a spiral heart

lanced through, into the burl of a tree

twisted again

and again

unfortunately

caught in wicked thicket

coiled tightly round

one single scaped breath

a sorry savior

dead

a future expedition

finds

no record

unfortunately

of such an account

just an imprint

of a lonely shell

marking a path

leading to nothing