Nothing in that old house.
Just a lone key on a hook.
Old and big,
Never used yet slightly worn.
Touching the key was as grabbing a bone.
Fragile to the eye,
Yet like a touching stone.
Cold, strong, and heavy was that key.
But, nobody knew where it would lead.
Maybe to a child’s playroom,
With old rag dolls and tiny tin trucks.
Maybe an attic,
With pictures and old furniture.
Maybe to a woman’s room,
With the smell of cigarettes and perfume.
Maybe to an opening in the attic to the roof.
Where you can see all around you,
For miles.
Or maybe the key,
Is just a lone key on a hook
Never used yet slightly worn.
Fragile to the eye,
Yet hard like a stone.
Or maybe that key is nothing,
In that old abandoned house.
Just there,
On the hook.
Moving with that old house
And was abandoned with,
The old, abandoned house.