Fortresses are meant for protection:
My own affords me none.
A fine architect, as fine a citizen,
Cloistered in the rooms of memory,
I sulk and wait for day
To repeat the walling up
Of all unseemly truths
I wish to keep to myself,
But the eyes will see the brick, the mortar.
Secrets do not need to be known,
Clenched tightly to your soul
Beneath the flesh of stone you’ve housed them in,
To be revealed.
Their keeping is their undoing
And our own.