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Poem

She is an unread poem, tightly closed,
like a book gathering dust on some forgotten shelf,
and I, lost among thoughts, became a poet,
trying to open her, to free her words,
those she hides from the rest of the world.
But she is an enigma, a labyrinth of twisted verses,
her words are echoes hard to decipher,
and she does not easily reveal her secrets, does not give herself away,
so I write and scratch, trying to make sense of this chaos.
Maybe she is not meant to be read, not by someone like me,
but, God, if I won't try, to write her in every way I know,
until perhaps, just perhaps, she will let me in,
to see the story behind those unread words.
She is a tranquil lake, yet deep, where light rarely penetrates,
and I am just a wave, trying to stir her waters,
to bring her drowned secrets to the surface.
I imagine what it would be like to open her pages, to untie her rhymes,
but every attempt is a dance on the edge of a knife,
and her verses are musical notes I cannot play.
And yet, I continue to write, to seek, to hope, that maybe one day,
she will leave the door ajar, and I will be able to see beyond her silence,
beyond the hidden metaphors.
Every night, I sit at my writing desk,
with a heavy heart and a mind full of questions,
and I plunge my pen into the soul of the paper, trying to unravel her essence.
Maybe I am just a madman, a lost dreamer,
but I cannot stop trying, writing, hoping,
that one day, her words will open like a flower at dawn,
and I will be able to read her story, our story, in all its hidden hues.

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