The Key

[Silver WInd]

The Key

 

There upon the porcelain table face

flecked in dust that catches

in sunlit beams shined through

the window's glass, lined with

a single crack,

 

causing a dance, each particle

seems to alight, like a fire

extinguished before it began.

 

A key was at rest, as if in waiting

for something, though long it must

have sat, silently it possessed

knowledge and secrets that may

never be had,

 

for somewhere suspended in time

there is a lock, empty and void

its alignments just right

for only one single match,

 

but the red-orange crust

begins its gluttonous feast

in the growing discolored splotches

of rustic disease.

 

Stillness lingers and drapes

of cobwebs downward drift,

one may never know voices

that no longer echo here

or movement that is long lost,

 

so there is a single key

the grand centerpiece

outshone not by a vase

which cradled within,

funeral flowers from so many

yesterdays ago.