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’s hearts to sacrilege.

​

And when this ends,

promise me it will

we’ll make them secret once again.

​

A tree, its 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, washing out the sky.

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.

​

And when this ends,

like you promised

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,

spilled 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.

​

But when this ends,

and end it will,

you promised me

so do our secrets once again.

​

We’ll toast to death,

to sacred sleep,

and lay our secrets down to rest.

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