For the prompt Secret, at the Writer’s Island.. Better late than never.

Words –
More words.
Hand motions –
Quickening to a blur.

Straight faces –
Eyes fixed forward –
Pretending there is calm;
While like a seething, shifting mess
Pain hides;
Behind bitter sweet memories –
Filed away, locked deep –
In the dank, dark recesses
Of a shattered hope.

The lord giveth, The lord taketh
We like homing pigeons return;
To the same shattered places.