remains open, swings wide its richly paneled mahogany doors. A sideways bow to your presence, the gifts you have bequeathed. An open invitation into flickering darkness. The stone floor swallows the stutter of your footsteps. There's no reason to fear the elastic silence. The blinking eyes of pigeons, the few thoughts that have held and lead you here, insisting they alone are the true path, steadying you. Somehow absorbing the moisture of your palms. Offering comfort when none embraces. Holding you until your eyes reveal and heart slows, the path ahead waiting. Unasked, if offered, your toll banished. Your toil lightened. A one-way ticket to anywhere-but-here appears. Hovering. Your name printed. Glowing gold. At what price you wondered? What remains to give? What remains unlost? What sin unanswered? Flesh free of scars, self-inflicted or medical artwork. Hair of ghost. Teeth imposters. Home at last after a dusty-free absence of years upon years, you've returned to settle in for what little remains, the moon's silver weavings, a spider's imaginary web. As the dust settles around you once more, its appetite a constant in the glowing dark where wax saints stand stiffly, shoulder to shoulder with serial killers.