On the Promise of Secret Things

Come with me, you, in search of secret joys wherever we can find them, funny little secret things, for us to, in our isolation, hide them, and only when the moon is full, come providence or privilege, can secret joys and sacred toys turn men to sacrilege. Whispered low, the vow remains, beneath the moon, beneath the stains. Hide with me where silence clings— our sacred toys, our secret things. No light to tell, no truth to show, just you and I and all we know. And when the night forgets our names, we’ll make them secret once again. A tree, it’s branch, a memory persistent, taps against the window pane. Why does it choose this moment here to intrude on my domain? Persistence is a virtue, one like moonlight, full at midnight, awash the eastern skies. The contrast permeates the room inside. White light is sterile; no confusion and no lies. Little secret things, I said we’d find, and still, I meant to leave it undefined. Small but everlasting joys, without conditions, we can hide them in our pasts like politicians, and forever let our hearts be misaligned. Whispered low, the vow remains, beneath the moon, beneath the stains. Hide with me where silence clings— our sacred toys, our secret things. No light to tell, no truth to show, just you and I and all we know. And when the night forgets our names, we’ll make them secret once again. Come with me, you. Let us gather in the vineyard, see the grapes de-vined of memory and drink the sacred wine, my blood, my gift, spilt sacrifice divine, of Mnemosyne. For all nine beget to her have wept, cursed waged war inside my head. Succumb, I have, to sirens call, yet unable to find death. Whispered low, the vow remains, beneath the moon, beneath the stains. Hide with me where silence clings— our sacred toys, our secret things. No light to tell, no truth to show, just you and I and all we know. And when the night forgets our names, we’ll make them secret once again.