It is an odd sort of maze,
where walls and windows shift,
where fog lives in the inside
and there are no doors
except the ones you build yourself.
Your sole candle seems inadequate,
but for this moment, it is the only tool you have,
It burns down slowly
as you claw at the walls,
hungry for light.
About this poem.
Confused by it? Of course you are. That’s what it’s like.
PS – The picture was taken at Poplar Forest, Jefferson’s other home.