The Game of Borrowed Names

The halo slipped and landed, in the hay.
The fox bowed low, then carried it away.
The sheep were counted; one counted back.
The wool stayed white; the ground slick black.

A wooden gift came from nowhere, bearing no name.
The gatekeeper smiled, with no one to blame.
Inside, soft footsteps danced with borrowed names.
Around the gift, their roaring fanned the flames.

The music hummed; the horns kept perfect time.
The fox and hounds perfected every crime.
Which mask was face? Which face had paid the rent?
The mirror winked, then claimed it never meant.

So lock the door, but leave doubt outside.
For even keys may volunteer as guides.
Question each gift that knows your name.
The brightest bargains rarely play, a fair game.

The inbox filled with some strangers dressed as friends,
Each knew exactly where any, and every, suspicion ends.
One showed my name before I'd written mine;
How long have counterfeiters, rehearsed that line?

The gift horse waits until celebrations start.
The fox still knows which strings to pull apart.
New masks grow old; old riddles keep their guise.
Deceit still knocks, once, twice—asks to step inside.

anxietyartcorruptioncrylyric

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