You with your key
that isn't
really
a key.
A twisted hairpin
your mother's, perhaps,
(jewels to wear in her hair.)
Or a sewing needle.
they are different, yet
the same.
metallic sharpness, they glint
in the darkness.
carefully, don't prick
your finger,
your tender skin.
invade the lock
burrowing into the cold brass
of rusted mechanisms.
(but there is nothing)
no secret key to this
secret garden.
no sweet-smelling roses
or daylilies.
no wooden swings dressed
in ivy, nor
ivory fountains
or angel statues.
no songbirds to sing
for the world.
no butterfly to dance
with painted wings.
not even a broken kite, bright colours dulled
(by Death)
(or something otherworldly) ,
torn and tattered
fluttering in the cold breeze
lost amidst black branches.
click.
the lock lies
useless and lifeless.
the door is open,
but the room is empty.
(nothing but the shadow of a shadow.)
Perfection Is Flawed
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-key-3/
