If I didn't like puzzles,   
I would have left you long ago.   
    

 
There is my favorite kind of beauty in you,   
and it runs so very   
deep -   
under lock;   
rusted key -     
you're encoded,   
you're shrouded;   
you bend to no breeze,   
     
but you're sideways for me...   
     
I would like to be     
that kind of mystery;   
to struggle from     
an underground,   
catacombed,   
devil-owned heart -   
all wound   
under, up, and around,   
veins like art:   
     
instead, I radiate,   
mind-lock and baby-break -   
I tell my blood-mistakes   
to whomever I please:   
I hide very few     
leaves of rowan from you,   
and those, even - they're yours to see -   
my words fly so free,   
superficially -     
I wear my perspective   
on my skin;   
blast my heart's little din   
for whoever's listening:   
     
my words are just fine -   
blunt, unbreaking, and blind -   
but yours are like the woods divine,   
draped in living symbol-vines,   
a bed for the grapes   
for your sharp, prophetic   
literary wine:   
what a poet's shrine;   
what a home of mine! -   
     
for me, stars align -     
each read, every time -   
my heart is so keen   
on the way you write.