Secrets & Lies

Secrets & Lies

In the quiet of a London flat
a cable‑wrapped hush hangs like a shawl;
the tea‑pot’s steam curls, a soft, sly draft
of truths cloaked beneath the coat‑folds all.

An old biscuit tin, the lock dented neat,
holds laughter wrapped in every chipped page;
while the neighbour’s child, with a stubbled cheek,
whispers, “It’s what we say, not what we stage.”

By midnight, the city’s Thames‑lit glow,
the boot of the bull runs silent through the lane;
the lies are ink‑lined in the paper's flow,
but secrets rise like fog on the old dock’s plain.

So we keep the clues in our cosy soles,
eager to lift the veil that fate will paint—
and even in the great British smog‑told reels,
truth might be the hardest thing we never want to taint.