Your Heart is a Library, Locked

Your books are hidden from me;
you keep volumes out of sight.
Yet I stay scanning your shelves,
waiting in your wings
in case one should open
and I may glimpse one word,
or two.
For I suspect the contents are
as beautiful as the cover.

Everything is Illuminated

Everything there is to know
I already know.
The process of life is just the remembering.
Empiricism merely reveals,
through each experience,
truth already set forth.

With eternity written on the heart,
the mind struggles to conceive it.

I wait for death.
For at the moment of dissolution,
all will be clear,
all will be recalled.