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