This is just an old poem of mine that I’m still attached to. It remains unedited, but very dear to my heart.
The mystical flaw of leaving things all alone
Hides nothing but openness, like a budding rose.
There is nothing but petals, stems, and leaves,
So the only secrets created, are not meant to keep.
There is a definitive potion of absolute serenity,
When cautiously handling all things clandestine.
Just like an old sofa, with fabric of deepened red,
Doesn’t show the sodden stains of blood.
A secret can be exchanged between close friends.
It’s a confidentiality that is given with permission,
Like a gift wrapped with paper in shades of hued gold,
It has a purpose meant to bring people closer together.
The whispered words oft come in a soft sounding caress,
It’s the reason they can sometimes sound more than a little sad.
But a small child will only shed tears when he or she is unheeded,
So always share your closest words with those that are the best.