Art-of-all-art

The secret keeper has a pond No one knows or even cares He gave goldfish up for bottles And everyday he sits and stares At all the floating secrets That litter his blue pond He often asks them questions But rarely do they respond You see he needs their company A crowd of silent friends Those who don't make you the god To which they need to make amends Every morning bright and early He grabs a bag too heavy for his back And tugs it to his spot Where everything fades to black He can't remember hearing Everything that's said Nobody that whispers in his ear Knows he's seeing red Who would ask their safe place What's lurking