Secrets are kept as if babies are in isolation,
there they stare with all the others,
as strings attached to their bodies,
secrets are simple to get the connections are aplenty.
Nothing was worse than secrets flying by,
gossip they said.
To pass the time.
No secret is safe unless it's you who harbors the key,
as it locks,
no ghost can enter except you,
and whoever may need me.
I knew better than to question the answer,
of someone who knew beyond reality.
There was something about going towards that state of existence,
it never felt clean,
nor was it necessary.
Secrets are illusions made for us to shape,
it turns out to be innocent,
then ultimately fake.
It's a wildfire that knows how to ruin someone's nirvana,
as the trees burn down their faith,
starts to crumble and then they lay.
In a state of questionable stamina.
Sometimes we have the deepest secrets,
we tell an old soul who can never believe it,
perhaps forget once they hear it,
but never do we tell someone close.
As if the prose was never enough,
to be a cure for those that know how it feels like.
Hypocrisy is when secrets spread,
yet their secrets never come.
Caged fireflies that know no soul,
to ever exist,
you exude confidence,
and there is an enemy to always pursue.
Secrets are graves that stay,
if we have nothing to say,
but the conscience battles with those that are strong,
through night and day,
the difference between each line,
there I waste no time in knowing.
What's mine, and who can keep it?
A person who can stay silent,
is someone who believes it.
Speaking is a curse for we have the freedom to slip,
and here comes another drink,
as the alcohol hits,
as we scream our deepest secret,
not thinking anyone will remember.
Beyond the crowd of thousands always,
one will see through it,
always there will be someone to know it.
Secrets are not kept,
for each string attached is neglected.
The picture on the table for only human perception is able,
no need for research all there is,
nothing to see.
From the perspective of humans,
and their conservation is the only thing they are willing to believe.
YOU ARE READING
Decipher
PoetryIf there was true love, it would be poetic and silent. Nothing could decipher poetry so violent.
