September showers cleanse my locked facade:
A cleaner lock to suit a lack of keys!
Its newer coat of gloss doth aim to please
But black-winged gods strike anvils, ringing hard.
They wield their keys like swords, begin all barred:
Defensive, passive, calling peace decrees...
Yet blink! The keyhole flashes! To thy knees!
There's 'epitaph to door' before 'en garde'.
O' take me to the grave where liars hide!
Observe at equilibrium with ground;
I'll squirm like screws betwixt a shattered hinge.
Invite thyself; a duel with fate to bide
Screams horrors — secrets — clips those wings... The sound
Of which reverberates: a flame! Clouds singe.

