Your writhen thoughts had unexplainable august about them,

I wonder from what this could stem?

They have remarkable semblance to knotted fingers,

The way each twines into my mind and lingers,

Drawing me in,

When did this begin?

So trenchant they seem to gouge holes in the hovering clouds of optimism,

Careful to block any sunbeam,

For in darkness you hold my baptism.