Bluebeard

| Email Poem

 This door you might not open, and you did; 
 So enter now, and see for what slight thing 
You are betrayed.
.
.
 Here is no treasure hid, 
 No cauldron, no clear crystal mirroring 
The sought-for truth, no heads of women slain 
 For greed like yours, no writhings of distress, 
But only what you see.
.
.
 Look yet again—
 An empty room, cobwebbed and comfortless.
 
Yet this alone out of my life I kept 
 Unto myself, lest any know me quite; 
And you did so profane me when you crept 
 Unto the threshold of this room to-night 
That I must never more behold your face.
 
 This now is yours.
 I seek another place.

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