Contemplation on a Secret Keeper

Your truth is a dark spark. A water-logged secret, gripping land for all its worth. I don’t have a reason to dispute the myth—the paradox of you that is, but isn’t. But your head is turned, and your heart is off. All strength is sought in frailty, but you fail to recognize the dividing line, twisting one to suit the opposite need. But where’s the rhyme in this unforgiving season? It’s nowhere. Just like you are, even as you put one foot in front of the other. Even as you kiss, and speak, and make love the only way you know how to: without love.

Someday, you might shake the stupor from your soul. And, like Alice caught in the middle of Wonderland, you'll wonder: how did I get here? But for now, you’re all but dead, a plastic smile on your face. A clever emptiness haunting you with a quiet grace. The evidence is there, but begs examination. Boldly, you refuse, like a coward bent on destruction. It seems that all your screams have gorged on silence, illusions following you to bed and beyond it. You've mistaken freedom for the cage, and learned to love the captor as something other than Keeper. You play the part as if your life depends on it, instead of as if your life ends because of it. The wires crossed, your brilliance is compounded, transcribed into something else. And you'll allow no one to disarm it, disentangle it.

Because you'd despair without it, choosing what's familiar over the unknown. And that's the end of it, really. You're a dead bird, no longer singing, in love with his graveyard cage.

 

Author's Note

I should really stop with the mindless rambling stories...