Skeletons and spirits in the closet.
What could ever pierce right through
that which but reflects in rhyme?
What may ever penetrate
lodestones of adamantine?
Sown in richest consternation.
Grown in darkest isolation.
Ripe with blazing deprivation.
Reaped by coldest calculation.
Refined through lack of expectations.
Aged in casks of tribulations.
Bottled up in imperfections.
Tapped out, lastly, by impatience.
Though it may be cracked and old,
this ribcage never will give way.
Whatever therein has been stowed
must never see the light of day.