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The Maze Runner

  • Writer: Davina Bruno Adcock
    Davina Bruno Adcock
  • Jan 8
  • 1 min read

Updated: Jan 26

The clock is going,

and I'm struggling to breathe

in the space between each tick.


There's a prize at the end.


I don't know what it is,

But I was told I'm supposed to want it more than anything.

It's supposed to fulfill me in ways untold.


But for now, I have to get through this maze.

The hedges are thick braids of thorns, feet deep.

The ground doesn't echo,

like a void I can't make sense of.


It's pitch black.


And the rain has begun to fall.


I have less time with each deafening tick of the clock.

But how much time do I actually have left?

I don't know. I just know I'm figuring out the turns and loops the hard way.


Within minutes, my own blood is splattered across my clothes.

My face is beaded with sweat.


And all I know so far is that every time I speak up for myself,

I hit a wall, hard.


Every time I advocate for a better process,

I trip.


Every time I'm confident, thoughtful, or kind,

it doesn't open up a path.

But I'm blocked by thicker and thicker walls of thorns.


I'm soaked, with the weight of confusion pressing me in worse than the maze.


I thought when I followed the rules,

the lights would snap on,

And that my goodwill would dry up the rain.


But I'm now trapped in a maze,


Filled with unspeakable folly and unseen terrors.


 
 
 

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