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Charlie Ward

At last I know
My thoughts are not my own;
Someone will take them.
So why then should I
Keep them to myself?
The sin of life is secrecy.
Which makes sane common-sense
Of ritual disclosure,
We are our own confessionals
Opening tight-closed doors
Behind which littler plots
Are hatched by littler men,
And ears are cocked
For unimportant whispers.
The taboos prove a sham
When all that happens is
That which can be easily surmised
By wider ranging minds.
Who needs the Watergate affair?
I do. It proves to me
The utter imbecility
Of playing secret games
In that society which we
Have in our time opened
And built with glass.

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