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Distinguished Bibliophile
Posts: 2,224
Registered: ‎08-15-2009


[ Edited ]

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.





'Of wings and words and dancing milkweed seeds...'