And a stranger comes barging in from the past,
And yet not so much a stranger as patron saint
Or memory, faded now to sepia tones.

And comes the theif under cover of night
To hold a ransom high o'er head. To burn.
Lapping with firey tongues of silver and green.

Until the morning sunlight brings the quenching dew,
To halt the ravaging of my countenance,
Blackened by unwarranted despair.