exactly,
for if not to mystify and to demystify,
why do we write, opine large, secretly confessing,
what is know to all soto voce in the chamber of secrets,
that lies between the brains four chambered ventricles,
that leads to a Grand Canal through which flow riddles,
all these thoughts, yours, mine, and overlapping crazy
solitary, they merge within the river of combination,
then known to all, colloquially named Ours, then too,
answers arrive in the scrivening, when each plain to see,
once the riddle posed, the answer is freed to exposure,
like veins blue to red, when oxygenated,all our mysteries,
becoming all colors, untied, there is but one color, reddened blood