Those words all stuck inside my head
lie in a book beside my bed.
Not all are truth I must admit,
masquerade of folly and wit.
Secrets of the lessons learned,
secrets that I should have burned.
Love affairs i've never had,
in solemn painfulness I clad
When it comes time, for truth be told,
by a heart so clean and cold...
it's likely then, that i'll be old.
my life be spent and all but sold...
The book will come, soft and bold
and speak of secrets all untold.
Poetry only rhymes in motion,
like crested waves upon the ocean.
I wonder how long I will endure to see,
this evidence that is all but me...