The Secrets are Real

Secrets are real. Tender as the soft pink skin of rose petals, they shrink from the sun, unable to laugh or scream in a way audible to our ears. The secrets come in changing forms and shapes, petals layered upon themselves, forming full cups of fragrance. The smell, lingering in the twilight stops my heart, seconds pass while I journey into stems and tubes, petals lick me into submission and I glimpse the vast undulating fields of movement. I take notice. What have you to tell me? Linguistics dull this sacred knowledge. Even the truth can be obvious and not seen. You need eyes, real eyes. You need ears and the ability to truly hear, a skill I do not yet posses.
The heart, the soft red organ covered in scars, must be open, even a small crack will do, just enough for the songs to enter. The recognizable yet infinitely unfamiliar beat. Beautiful, bringing tears to my eyes, yet causing my heart to pump strangely, the new sensations sending mixed messages to my frightened brain and sickened body…yet, something in me sings, unable to look away. Growing louder with time, the gates slowly open a little more…then, ever so slightly, a little more.
With the passing of time, with the passion tended knowledge and budding transformation the gates can be pried further by the tiny scarred hands of inner struggle. Did you know there where thousands hiding in the frozen folds, in the vast wastelands of negative emotions, ready, dying even for a reason to exist once again. Tired of masturbating, bored of fear and petty emotions. Bloodied fingernails scratch at every surface, the gold tinged bars and iron locks have had many years to rust.
Has the message seeped in? The clues are all around, yet you must do the deciphering. The detective is hidden among your many egos, your many centers of vision, each one of the thousands thinking itself unique and alone. Grab the cloak and the pipe, take a walk in the cloudy night. Smokes wafts among your legion of demons and colliding impulses. Yes, it is you who must dig for the treasure.
Maps lay at your feet, soiled and muddy from neglect. Did you know they littered your yard? The dog has chewed the corners, children have colored upon them, adding flowers and rainbows on the thick parchment and gold filigree. Can you feel their wisdom? The symbols are plainly written, bold strokes written with a sure hand and flaming presence. Fire leaps from the characters, can you hear them talking? Are they speaking to YOU? The Real. The eternal unnamable.
They come with silence, they come with fragrance and power. Each one carries the cries and knowledge.