Whispered secrets echo gently.
Forgotten roses lie against the window,
and their thorns etch an ancient language into the glass.
The words float in the air like waterlilies,
soft and weightless,
unable to fly
but incapable of sinking below the surface.
Frost spreads over the pond,
trapping those words where they drift.
But secrets never die
They will shiver in the cold, but they will not freeze.
They will turn stiff and indigo, but they will not break.
Because secrets never die
Their words will live forever in song,
a symphony of broken promises and half-truths.
A lament of shattered trust.
Because secrets never die



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