silver secrets

Secrets are the only real magic anymore. What one knows that nobody else does. What one sees as they blink their blind eyes behind pigeon glasses. Gaps in the clouds, cracks in pavement, pauses in a song where the Dust falls through. I am the miser of secrets. I scramble about clutching at wisps of smoke which curl lazily between my fingers before I stuff them in black velvet bags and lock them all up in a crocodile skin trunk. Peeling telegraphs, cross stitch hearts, books in ancient greek. Ebenezer never knew that all the gold in Threadneedle street is nothing to silver secrets.