Into a Labyrinth Without a Thread

Sacred to us, this love sown in the blood
follows itself the way hyacinth wed
to the purple wind tasted of death set
before summer’s end as an offering.

Tekhelet-threaded truest conclusion
unraveled when questioned, tested enough
even promises to forget vanished
in that moment we went on conjuring.

Reddened intents, hurts zephyred myriad
instead of worsening worked cells within
our hermitage this flesh becomes two rocks
caverned soft, lamplit bluish violet.

Flame awash, rushing across veins, rusted
into a labyrinth without a thread.