The past has many faces -

They arrive like vagabonds,

They whistle,

They blow.

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,


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