A poem's secret language

in itself is that.

A secret language 

we all long to understand,

to see the beautiful similies

as they unravel like a present on christmas morning.

We long to hear the metaphors

as they sing their radient sonnets.

But what we wish to see the most

is the understanding in our eyes,

as the magic word hits

and the secret language

is no longer that.

The poem opens itself

and out comes the stores

in the once secret language.