KNOWN

There’s something so obvious about me no one will ever find.

They can’t comprehend things they know not exist. They won’t know how the tongue curved when it felt creation in soprano.

How its accent roamed things trembling, exposing faith in full arrival before it died into another verse.

But if you can create the things I’ve made up, then they’re no longer mine, but ours. You cannot see it, read it, or open it. The way in is the way you feel, because it can only be aroused, never found.