In the Cradle of My Memories

It’s sad to think that those who know me Don’t know me at all… Thinking they have me pigeon holed Inside their prefabbed walls. They don’t know, for example, what lies Inside my brain; I might have told from time to time And tarnished my good name. Without them even knowing that Those things I did and said Both noble and shameful Secrets beneath my bed. From helping strangers along the road I’ve traveled long and winding; Who knows the winds that blow And leave us cold and blinding? And those who love me most of all Are clueless as the clouds That I can even think at all Or write a poem, somehow. It’s not that they don’t love me It’s not that they don’t care; But rather that I’ve kept from them These mysteries hidden there. In the cradle of my memories And womb of all my dreams; One never knows what magic shows Until the curtain sets us free. Drawn away until displayed The man behind the drapes Is waiting for his chance to bow Before too late.