secrets.

I wish I could let you in
on the answers. But you know
I don't have them
and I don't even know
if they exist.
I wish I could gift you
with reassurance that
everything will be alright.
But then, maybe it won't?

Even if I knew the words,
they are only a scripted cue
from the magician for whatever
his confederates have been taught to do
in order to hide the trick from view.
It's taken years of practice and deception
to make it feel so terribly real.

I wish I could divulge
the secrets you are seeking.
(Is it really any secret?)
I don't know.
Always seems as though
the secret of happiness
is in being happy
and the secret of life
is that it must be lived.
Not even love can
make happiness.
Not even love
can make things right.
Not even love can cajole
the rain to fall or end.
If it could,
I would always have flowers
for your table and the
honey for your tea.