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Enigma
The mystery of the deep down inside,
Where probing is a futile venture,
A search curtailed by fear above all,
A witch’s asylum inside the complex mind,
The darkness ne’er to see the light,
Reachable, eerie, dangerous, enigmatic,
Where angels and demons commune,
Where the laws are written on a whim,
Where goodness is a nebulous mood,
Where evil plants its heavy feet
Deep in the ground but sometimes not,
Sometimes in the fire but not always,
Where goblins wear priestly robes,
Where nuptials are devil’s pacts,
Where albs are woven by witch’s cloth
With yarn that winds around the neck,
A hangman’s noose or an angel’s halo,
A language echoing the voice of evil,
Of angels cursing and wavering in peace,
With one foot in chains and the other free,
With hands stained by the devil’s spume,
In houses of horror with saintly rooms,
Letting the spirit run freely through the halls,
Exercising the good with evil intentions,
Living in the balance of good and evil,
Or the irresolution of the two,
The favorable one that fits the mood,
The contentment of the indecisiveness,
Or the volatile mood of the impulse,
Or the mysterious resident that lives inside,
Waving his magic wand
And making up new rules to live by,
The priest clothed in the devil’s apparel,
The one too dangerous to be approached,
Or the one they call the enigma.
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