Warily, I rest,
a dark petal in the midst of white roses,
the outlier in a set of numerals,
the unwritten page against a timeless novel.
These things I am, or seem to be
in the stillness of the night.
Who can say though, who I really am,
when I myself can barely scratch the surface?
I am a labyrinth, a maze unto myself.
I am a lock with a lost key,
a fable of mythology.
Is to be to know, or merely to be?
That should be the question of the ages.


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