Owed to the Challenge

If I didn't like puzzles,  
I would have left you long ago.  
   
There is my favorite kind of beauty in you,  
and it runs so very  
deep -  
under lock;  
rusted key -    
you're encoded,  
you're shrouded;  
you bend to no breeze,  
   
but you're sideways for me...  
   
I would like to be    
that kind of mystery;  
to struggle from    
an underground,  
catacombed,  
devil-owned heart -  
all wound  
under, up, and around,  
veins like art:  
   
instead, I radiate,  
mind-lock and baby-break -  
I tell my blood-mistakes  
to whomever I please:  
I hide very few    
leaves of rowan from you,  
and those, even - they're yours to see -  
my words fly so free,  
superficially -    
I wear my perspective  
on my skin;  
blast my heart's little din  
for whoever's listening:  
   
my words are just fine -  
blunt, unbreaking, and blind -  
but yours are like the woods divine,  
draped in living symbol-vines,  
a bed for the grapes  
for your sharp, prophetic  
literary wine:  
what a poet's shrine;  
what a home of mine! -  
   
for me, stars align -    
each read, every time -  
my heart is so keen  
on the way you write.