In confidence

Each time, we tear off seals of secrecy

In perpetual longing for consolation of some sort;

We will whisper:

Stories of absurd intimacy

That yet all follow the same thread of bitterness and anguish

Which will not be borne

By the soul alone.

It flows

Like black tea oozing out on a worn saucer

Betraying years of expectancy.

It seeks

A neutralizing element from the bleaching of air

And the strokes of sunset;

Welcoming washed-up currents of pious weaving

And shoving lost remnants

Into the blatant rays of observance

By lighthouses which never would guide.  

The emptiness felt thereafter is not

A new found calmness in retrospect;

But that of a spring newly taut

After much revelation of actuality.

The final call of self-respect

Brings notice to the hollows

When far too much is known;

By people who never really did care

But were just placed in the way

Of arbitrary tidal biddings—   

Thereby magnifying flaws in our flawless faith.

For such a plain placebo therapy

Does not dilute darkness when spread

Like butter on bread; but instead devours

And shades every square area

Spiraling in this comforting thirst of dependence

Where none can seek solace.