Cold clone
You were invited
To the silver age
You fretted
On the margins you
Courted overhearing
Heard too much
And let your facial expression
Become your face
A sort of story
Storytellers tell
In between stories
They look to replicas
To remind themselves
Of lost originals
Like mountains of porcelain
After an age of winds
I thought your myth
Was only a thought
Like a hot doorknob
Opening into dark fires
Cracking liminals
To hear something noises
In anymore ears
Cold clone
Going gone
You told nothing
Where your mouth had been
Your mouth still was