Cloaked Words

What do I say to the things inside?
That flow about as a river's pride?
Say the name and I shall speak!
Not minutes, or days, but weeks!
I'll speak my heart until the end!
I hope that I do not offend.
Yet can one help that January is cold?
Or that the dreaded February colder still?
Sometimes the truth can hurt our insides,
Ruthless truth often conquers, divides.
Hatred is a thing of infinite despair,
Because truth spoken thus is not good repair,
Its intent is meant to ridicule and scorn,
Makes us all wish we were never even born.
Know then that what I say is misted over
As St. Patrick did pray with rustic clover.
Hear then please my cloaked words, do not scorn me
For saying what I love is what I see.
Love is but a symbol of what is to come,
For as we know it it is imperfect, not done.
So know now that as I speak to you,
My words are undone, yet still, so true.
Their full meanings remain unknown in time,
Just as the meaning of riddle's rhymes.
So speak in turn to me of whats inside,
Do not close off the wall by self-made pride,
Speak in riddles if you must my dear,
For all will be revealed soon, made clear.

                                                   Cloaked Words, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012