I
am only an enigma
to myself.  

I
can only foster
the words from the books
on my shelf,

But I
found a box
full of lines never used
in a home, over-bruised,
compensated with ruse.

The ruse was the house,
in the sense of its looks,
for on a block full of mansions,
it held only books.

The floors were all battered,
and the sinks filled with mold.
And the windows were shattered,
inside of the home.

But if one thing it taught me,
this mansion, a crook,
is some enigmas might vanish
if on the inside we looked.