The bags under my eyes
Are packed for a journey
I've already taken.
They appear still to shine
But the artist has played
With a watery hue.
Grey spots the horizon
Across Autumnal downs
Of changing scenery.
My old thoughts hibernate
In the forgotten caves
Off their well-trodden path.
Many versions of me
Sit masked inside their lair.
Highwaymen of fortune.
I stand and deliver,
Give up some hidden hoard
And count the coins of fate.
What use this veiled trove
If on some winters eve
It cannot shine again?
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