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.)
