I unfolded my heart against the crease,
shed layers so you may see that I,
in skin and blood am human at rest,
that fragile ideas lay at the core.
What a bore it may have been to see,
that the mysteries hidden in the dark
were mere sums and dividends,
not complex as it may had led.
These pains that plague this mind
at night, in deeper cold and wind,
are the same that restless set in
on each and every head that
half turns and flips a pillow in plight,
so they may feel the icy cold
of untouched sheets and refreshing
to the cheek, may sit in minutes
of nightless keep to faint against
those thoughtless streams of still,
that pull against the mind unthrilled
and burn till the wax has melted away;
the wick left tainted black - shriveled
till far from new, it's bitterness killed.
