Your mystery,

is still intact–Voynich,

a virgin wrapped in a shroud

buried in a silver birch forest,

your countenance rumoured to be hieroglyphic,

doodled in the margins of ancient tomes

from a lost library half-eaten

by silky-eared goats.

I cast around for a Rosetta,

or something enhanced, cryptologic,

primed to scythe a path

through your infernal palimpsest,

unearth the root of your serif tongue,

the rusty key to the secretariat,

where the vast furniture of your brain resides,

its serpentine design ever deceiving,

allowing me to decipher you in strange dreams

impossible to piece together–

a secret history

enraptured by shadowplay,

forcing me to climb the endless spiral

of a hollow observatory,

discarding each layer of silver membrane

only to be looked at again every morning,

still hoping to break you.


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