A key, ornate, an heirloom.
What does it open?
A treasure, lost?
A heart, locked?
A key, brass, an antique.
A key or the key?
Resting in a hand.
Small and white,
Trembling with fear
Of the known or the unknown?
The key, patinaed with age,
Its origins, a mystery,
Or so it is thought.
One knows, but no one
Pauses, listens, or sees.
The key, in a hand,
Small and trusting,
No words spoken,
A path found by
A simple verse, but not of words.
The key, a mystery, to a mystery?
Of the mystery, of the origins,
One still knows,
Another how to find the one
Hidden away at the top of a stair.
The key to the key is key.
A verse of no words,
A path with no sight.
Senses of the dark,
Follow them to a corner, forgotten.
The key to the key,
In a dark place is to be found.
A continuous, silver round.
A verse of no words.
A path of no sight.
The key in a small hand, rests.
A fluttering heart,
A dark butterfly drifting, dancing.
Bright eyes, watching,
Suddenly seeing, understanding.
The key warmed by a hand, glowing.
An answer to a mystery waiting.
Small feet running, racing
After the dark butterfly, dancing 'round.
The path of no sight, found.
Butterfly Writer...Fragile wings spread for the first time...
