The Tower of Learning is dark
And ominous, made of stone and shadow.
In its center, a spiral staircase leads
To rooms upstairs, locked and esoteric.
Masked sentries guard every door,
And birds of prey and wisdom perch
On the windowsills in the long silent hallways.
With a torch, I stalk the grounds,
As I traverse your body at night,
As I delve into your mind by day.
In the end, you are not so mysterious,
Not as much a bloody chamber enigma
As all that gothic lore would have me believe;
Rather, your essential structure is familiar,
And my ring of skeleton keys serves me well.
Still, my eyes do take their time adjusting
To the singularity of your configuration,
To the bends and folds of your cells.
So I blow on the fire in my hand,
And the room flashes brightly,
Brilliantly, and for an instant, I glimpse
The interior of the tower of you.
Instead of church bells in your belfry
I see your body, uncanny and naked,
Reclined on your side on the orchard floor,
Bathing in a bed of red apples.