The past has many faces -
They arrive like vagabonds,
And I know
I know there's a price for each invitation,
But my pockets are finally empty
and my rings are made of tin.
I have even forgotten
How to barter
For the kingdoms of noise they bring.
I am the full moon lost in the skies of an autumn dawn,
I dance with minds yet to be born,
And I gather the dust of angels
as they blaze their trails back home.
There is a silence in the words I carry
and a promise in the keys I own.
For I am the key holder and in me the doors collide.
Count with me:
One for the chalice,
Two for the tide,
Seven for the stubborn,
And an emerald for she who swallowed the dregs of her pride.
Now, tomorrow has a face -
The white cherries of Urmia,
English Tudor dew,