Makeshift Temples

The statue of the half-bull on this plinth
Regards us as we march in. Not denying
Truths consistent with our fear of dying,
We refuse to give in, sip absinth,
Tend to our garden, planting hyacinth
And watering the ground. We are not crying,
Not ever. Pay attention. Someone's lying,
But not about death. Enter the labyrinth,

Move forward into life, complex and odd,
Replete with aimlessness, coincidence,
Stupid decisions, sitting on the fence,
And makeshift temples to a frozen god.
We are as unlike as peas in a pod.
I have been blessed with undue influence.