She is an unread poem, tightly closed

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.