The Secret
November 13, 2020

Beyond the book ends of conversation
Well mannered, gentle in ebb and flow
Skeletons, holed-up in hard to reach cupboards
Laugh at their master’s voice
On the outside all seems middled
Straight lines with no kinks
Vanilla lives where only the garbage stinks
But not far from the guarded gates of insipia
Just below the waterline of words
There is ugliness, there are dirty hands
For we all bury secrets in the quiet of the night
Fearful of the day our deeds may come to light

For some, the secret is monstrous
A chamber of horrors, with no visitors bar a penitent priest
But for most of us the demon is benign
A wriggly, niggly thing without teeth or claws
Yet, we tremble, wait for the guilty finger to settle
And wide-eyed vultures to pick at our mettle
Till the unmentionable is mentioned, the hidden revealed
Then wives cry, sons disappoint, friends lower their eyes
But who is intact, who amongst can claim Lincoln’s truth
Or Jesus’ perfect divinity, not one of us
For we all bury secrets in the quiet of the night
Fearful of the day our deeds may come to light


Photo by jesse orrico on Unsplash

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By Simon Perchik

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By Simon Perchik