Some Thing Called A Secret

They are the transmissions of despair The locomotives of ludicrous disaster The pistons of poison rushing through rushing to who Whom what where Ever...they are are... There. The raucous and calamity of treachery - despised but kept, hidden but un-swept, too much often when dealt. They are the caked on slime Dried over time Stubborn mules, the prime Suspects: they subject their objects as prospects of failure never sitting always intending to declare a new charge - invisible, undetectable, but reachable. They win as they wind up and down up and down and around from the sky to the ground... It doesn't help to frown. They don't pay for where the sleep they never sleep - always growing never snoring no need for exploring... Forever imploring. Stop they cannot will not - not like the brakeless training bikes training wheels out of sight big and small like tikes - not like Mike. They are the frenemies that tend to be present endlessly and to change that means to shame their game stare straight in the mirror - a reflective silver - and say: It is I with two to see and only one to speak; I must cement the trap disposal, disengage this long proposal and end... These secrets...