Of treachery we know but naught,
Whimsically, we answer with haught,
Infatuated with thought, egotistically wrought,
We’re up for auction, so easily and cheaply bought.
Tides turn much easier than I will,
Your secrets are safe with me.
If you need to mend yourself by picking at me one stab at a time,
I’ll wait until there is enough holes through me to shine light on you.