I sang a simple song today.
Fingers laced together,
honey-soaked marbled whispers,
lost photographs drifting down a forest creek.

Silence sank in.
Static tore at my beggar's brain.
Ink blots stained his cheek.
I looked down on him yet again.
He looked at me and smiled with relief,

and uttered

"I must ask.
Are we the lock?
Or the key?"