Three Labyrinths

I didn't choose to look this way
These lines, hair this grey
Oh, but anyway, these things I think of as mine

I asked a man to build for me a playpen for my son
In the shape of a labyrinth
And then, when it was done, I built for him an ivory tower
With windows around for every hour
So the sun might shine with all his power on Dædalus and his son

Did Dædalus mount an albatross when he fathered Icarus?
I tried to keep the beast of loss locked from that cunning man

(My offspring had his thread cut short by Theseus
His tail caught and knotted tight around his horns, hair matted into bloody points

The red threads that Ariadne gave to spur him
Must've come from more cunning hands than hers
In fact, all possible paths converge; I'm sure Dædalus was that man)

Perhaps he made the wooden cow my wife locked herself in somehow
Maybe we are all even now entangled in his plans

I know he made three labyrinths; a wooden one to reckon with
The one where my poor horned scion lived, and one inside my crown

I walk the wooden walls alone
And remember with every stone the prisons we make of our homes
The labyrinths of lives

I didn't choose to end this way; these lines, the things I say
These are just a part I play until the music dies.