The Truth About Secrets | A Poem

 

As the final splashes of bronze and crimson dissipates from the now deepening twilight sky

The faded hollow of encased mausoleum ideas fills with ink black shadows

The brief joy of connection is slipping away

And the reality of the decisions you made hover above your head like a ghostly haze

You say that you are the only one who will judge your selfishness

But when you look down at the spade grasped in your white knuckled fists

You know that the graves you dig are for a dozen other lies

This is the truth about keeping secrets

For every six foot box you dig, you force yourself to dig one hundred more to conceal its obvious placement

Until you begin to finally run out of space to dig and bury them all.

This is what no one wants to say out loud

But the truth that everyone knows too well:

Those you want to know the least

will always know every excruciating detail.

And you hide behind curtains knitted of volatile illusions

Knowing full well even the most unobservant eyes follow the sinister twitch of your desires.

Late night wanderings fueled by desperation to find your cure for loneliness.

Days, weeks and months of baseless rationalization in ugly attempts to justify the actions of your own autonomous compulsions

This is the truth about whispered love affairs. 

You're a snake devouring your own tail mouthful by mouthful

Until your hunger is no longer satisfied

And you reach your pale death grip out towards other desperate souls

Just so that you can pretend you maybe won't have to lie in this shallow grave alone.

But you're only an empty hour glass chasing the illusion of already exhausted time

in the end you always lose

And find yourself buried alive beneath six feet of dirt 

In a grave that was always dug for your own selfish heart.