Secrets Poem by Rhys Owens

Honest men never tell lies,
Otherwise they'd lose their rights of existence.
But it isn't honesty that lies in truth.
The fact is that truth doesn't lie;
Nor does it stand up.

Like actresses, the scarlet womb
Of world's protection feeds off the lies they learn.
The body learns. The mind learns. The spirit...
At different paces, all together.

She speaks with her lozenge lips the truths of the day.
That day, or weeks or months. Now it's something new;
But, lipstick and famed eye shadow, it's always something new
That she sweats.―The craft of her art, her liveliness.
Her figure, her appeal, soft and unapologetic
She turns hard.

And those that will lose, despite their abilities, because
The winning doesn't seem as honest.
It's a long, long wait, the battle with maturity.
Secret lies nestled cormfortably in the larger nooks of expression.
Mysterious youth with its magic, tangled sloppily
Old age mystic design of filtered truth.

Truth,
The one word baking in the sun―life-giving death-dealing,
Many words. The nausea of the limitless language.
The right words unsaid.

And how many truths repeated does it take to rely on only one?