There is a quiet, dense
forming inside me.
It is the key to all hidden things.
now shimmer faintly for me
at the edge of sight -
a world of shadowed,
irridescent, gossamer threads.
Ostensibly, there is some door I pushed,
not knowing its destination,
whose threshold has, not wrongly,
brought me to myself.
She is a flawed, grasping,
called forth from fevered nights.
Mystery no longer, she is Known.
She is who has been beneath my skin
all this time.