The innocent fell down the rabbit hole
the secret garden of chatting flowers
in a sudden game of croquet. Red rose
the secret beneath, actually white.
A vial of serum that I tasted.
Red was the color of hearts and her rage;
she had found it the one I forgotten
absent minded. A red rose with no cloth
to camouflage her pasty bloodless flesh.
A single red rose with falling petals
in a castle forgotten and a prince,
alone, forgetting kindness in his heart.
In other happenings a father lost,
some say his mind, perhaps his prize gemstone.
Tucked away in a book it stays hidden,
like a safe to keep his girl protected
The secrets the furniture keeps, not well
for they wanted to escape the binding.
Hidden in the pixels we find ourselves
the secrets many forget with ageing.
When young we are dreamers in fairy tale
then they become our way of escaping.
Assuming that we can go back, forget
what we know now, forget reality,
all the good times with the bad for one chance.
Like little kids believing in Santa,
perhaps we are kids in the way we hope.
And perhaps hope is all we ever need,
for it is the last thing to leave the box.
Hope is all there is, that is the secret.
The Secret
Two girls discover
the secret of life
in a sudden line of
poetry.
I who don’t know the
secret wrote
the line. They
told me
(through a third person)
they had found it
but not what it was
not even
what line it was. No doubt
by now, more than a week
later, they have forgotten
the secret,
the line, the name of
the poem. I love them
for finding what
I can’t find,
and for loving me
for the line I wrote,
and for forgetting it
so that
a thousand times, till death
finds them, they may
discover it again, in other
lines
in other
happenings. And for
wanting to know it,
for
assuming there is
such a secret, yes,
for that
most of all.
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