Mystery...


Mystery, what are you? A covert
sensibility, a whisp, a barely-knowing
intoxicating thrill. You are the aspect
of lovers, entwined in one another's faults and glories.
You are in their eyes, their arms.
It is you they long for most, after years have promised
answers, a senseless vulnerability--What happens next?
Even you yourself are unsure
penning over your dark desk delicate endings.
Fortune is your lover, but you are master over that wench.
She rubs your feet with oil, whispers soft names into your ear,
licks your lobes and tickles imagination,
an utter distraction to your office.
Still you are a womanizer-- a Tom for
those naive girls who shed their robes, decloak
to scorn the night and dance naked in the day.
You scoff at their glee.
You would have the day darken into night,
everyone retreat to colder climes
where knowledge is forbidden and wonder punished.
Mystery is the Master!
Mystery, I make love to your darkness!