Who loves a secret loves not me

I am translucent mystery

As if before a lighted candle

I hold a hand of metacarpals

Phalange fingers, bone from bone

Are all the secrets that I own

A cranium becomes a cup

For drinking thoughts and feelings up

Accuse me, though, I am opaque,

Remove in smoke, a fire-drake,

No one can find me if I use

Evasive action's bony shoes

Even if you took apart

The cracking ramparts of my heart

You still would be outside of me

Unless delivered up the key

And what is that – a comb and eye

To slide the tumblers side by side?

No, it is the ash and flame

That burnt and burning are the same

(Click here to follow Pavel's ongoing epic poem “The Shoulder of the Sun.” You may visit Pavel's website at http://www.greyowlpress.com.)

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