I am only an enigma to myself.  
I can only foster 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, the water pipes groaned,
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.