Speaking in Code

In stacks, we walk surrounded by the glyphs,
Which translated would yield up full their depths,
Obscured and full enveloped by the mists,
Ascending from the desiccated nest,
Which once held wishes denser than a stone,
And now holds nothing solid as a sponge.
The scent of mourning rises from the bones—
Abandoned, newborn babes before the plunge.
A gentle bump, a lesson on a slate—
I beg of you, O Father, finally tell;
Render the inexplicable choate,
Turn into Heav’n, this labyrinthine Hell.
Allow me learn, but only give the key,
This is the most that I can offer Thee.

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