THE KEY..

I carried a key in my pocket deep,

Cold to the touch, but mine to keep.

It fit no door that I could see,

Yet every night it followed me.

I tried it once on rusted steel,

Heard something shift, but not quite yield.

The lock stayed firm, the hinge stayed tight,

Still something opened in the night.

They said, “Throw it away, it’s old,

It’s worn, it’s useless, bent with cold.”

But every time I let it rest,

My chest felt heavier than my vest.

One day I turned it, slow and sure,

No creak of wood, no click secure—

But silence broke, my breath went free,

As if a door had chosen me.

Now I don’t ask what it unlocks,

A room, a truth, a life, a box.

Some keys are never meant to prove—

They’re held to stay,

or turned… to move..