He is not a spy

and not a child, just silly --


with his secrecy.

the wind whispered me a secret
and I hid it from the sun
buried beneath the shade of a shadow
only till the passing light is done

yet a falling star flickered a rumour
till all sparkled the same lie
whispers spread across the heavens
and a black veil covered the sky

the secret lay buried in dark deception
amidst the still night of hidden lies
where the stars shine in secrecy
as to why the sun will no longer rise

Taint, a tender trap?
Blue of the sky, remembered by a cloud:
Faintly, the poetry of life, and its hap
Has the voice to step forward, and remind the season of the proud:

A hatful of poor decision's, has its merit...
But the cool eye of embarrassment
Has come and gone, with meet to understand, limited...
To ours, the count of couth, is one more irony's lament?

Hate me when you see the dragon...
Ought fix and fit enough futures
The life of a needier first, is always a sorrow last, a harrowed tongue?
Has said the obvious, a role in the heinous is a fools curiosity...

Throwing tenderness at you, like one of thumbs even is...
Reasons may give you onus, a variety to concede a gift
Coming for beauty, and its rosy inclination, a truer wisdom
That has survived the heed, the beating wings of condition to lift:

Hate me one more time, a reality of pain has become a champion:
To the fate, the hardened courage of youth, with a challenged whisper?
May a knowing hurt, be the fascinated letter of providence
Seeing the obvious, a bird of purer colors, will finish the kiss?

Guns with an imagination...?
Salt in a brutish court, of angers more, to swear in romantic language
Still the burden of squalor, with a slighter lip of intimation?
Your fruit is sweeter by the secrecy, as if, a cold shoulder ever is a place for rage...

My sick little love
My close-hidden dove
My one, my only, my man.
Call to me
Talk to me
Promise me that you can.
I am yours till death
Yours till the end
Your till the end of time, my love
Kismet will know.

A borrowed history
A second-hand life
A true heritage denied.

This stranger sapling grafted to your family tree.
And the story told, to them and me;
" You were chosen, you are special, we were lucky..."

So you won.
Here's your prize;
A commodity baby, a charity child
Love conditionality and gratitude implied.
Woken from connection and amniotic peace
To a secret story of threefold grief.

There is no companion,
Only company.
There is no love but
They are lovely.
There is no curiosity to ask:
“What are your dreams?”
“Your secrets?”
“Your difficulties?”
There’s no desire to observe a legacy.

Maybe the protagonist is to blame.
Years were spent building
A foundation based on
Secrecy and mistrust
But I had no idea
People were happy and willing
To play along.

We are in this delicate situation. Words can’t be uttered. Eyes can’t meet. And hearts can’t be followed. The world depresses us. I have no choice but to push and push you away, but how, when those mesmerizing eyes caress my soul like it’s the most fragile thing in the world. But I won’t say a word, I can’t. I value you that much that I don’t want to put you in difficulty.
So I will let this be
I won’t say a word.