i sink, demeaning, reeling from my find
at one with riddle, smitten by its hand
in moody preparation for the mind
enigma i would deal to understand
but never should the option offer flight
else i will see this through another night.
that i am only lowborn is forgot
by those dispensing oddment for the flow
my vestige or my clothes betray me naught
for now they serve my patience, ever slow…
i will not hence reveal my inner way
and bleed to guttle yet another day
with word i am enabled, hear me speak
or stay and see my letters on the page
i cherish all the trodden and the weak
and send the thought to strengthen and to age
the skeptic and the seeker must amass
if sense and worthy wisdom come to pass
the hunt and celebration through the pen
in daring may entice the worldly-wise,
but drenched in circumstances of the “when”
the roving eye will miss a quick disguise
and yet another stanza, made to mourn
is sitting with its brothers, cold and worn