Secrets

She knows a secret. A secret she never told. And it sits in the back of her mind, in the quiet of her dreams, in the still silence of her heart.

She knows a secret. She knows an awful secret. And she never told him, the boy she loved in her own strange way. On the day that the sun slumpt to earth, gasping in the road, and it's fire pulsed it's last and went out; on that day she learnt the terrible secret. On the day that the world paused, reeling in the enormity of the darkness that sank upon it; she felt the secret dig it's cruel talons into her brain, words she could not unhear concealing themselves in the shadows behind her eyes.

She knows a secret. She knows a secret that must be hidden. As tears flowed and flowed and flowed she tried to forget the tragic truth, the scrap of paper curling in the flames. As the earth staggered she tried not to think it. As reality faltered she tried not to know it.

She knows a secret. A secret she never sought to learn. And she wonders sometimes, in moments of solitude and memory as candlelight flickers across her face, whether in an alternate universe time would have eased the divide that grew between her and the boy who must never know the secret? What would be different if she had never known that the men destroyed the paper and hid the secret on the day the sun fell?

Solitude

This was originally much bleaker. But I assure you if I ever finish my next poem, it is significantly less bleak. Well, I don't know how people will take it, but it is making ME laugh, and that is the important bit.

I asked you why the world turns and
I asked you why we're here
And I did not get an answer
But I knew that you were there

I asked you why we're lonely and
I asked you how'd it sound
And I did not get an answer
Though I saw you were around

I asked you what it all meant and
I asked you why you are
And I did not get an answer
Yet I note you were not far

I asked you how you came here and
I asked you all the whys
Still I did not get an answer
Rock rampart rarely replys

whelmed

There is too much going on. Too much.
And I would know, I can't hold onto perspective these days.
I feel like I am being pulled in a million directions. Everyone wants something from me. Attend this, do that, achieve this, be that.

I can't say anything, without it potentially being interpreted as pertaining to everything or anything else. And so of course, because for some nonsense reason that is just the way things work, it would be now that I feel most like shouting.

The world is spinning wildly on its axis.
I am screaming at the sky.
Shadows or dragons slide out from the corners.
And the message is for someone who does not know to listen.