The Signs Of Secret Lives Poem by DM W

Although, these days, we rarely remove our
Elaborate masks, such is social pressure;
The signs of secret lives that we create
From hour to hour; from day to day
Permeate our dream worlds and infiltrate
Our waking consciousness. You could say
That they are remnants from childhood's sweet haze.
Is the rose in summer's garden more vivid
In the memory than in actuality?
Is our faith in the bright fables of Eden
Merely a sham? These signs are rather fuzzy.
They straddle the line between light and shade.
O they move freely between what is real
And what is imagined like a soft breeze.
Intermittently, they pierce the cracks
In our frozen masks and we're uplifted.