Iron key
I’d let
you in
through
an open door
if i
could find it,
get a
handle on it,
rescue
the iron key
that
seems to be lost.
Maybe
it’s just resting,
tired
from knowing
the
things beyond doors
residing
in rooms
without
the right words.
The dry
echoes tell
of
families and friends,
footsteps
fading out,
but
never forgotten,
eager to
rebegin.
I draw a
curtain closed
on our
watchful lighthouse,
its one
eye winking
where
boats never rest
in the
blackening sound.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, September 6, 2020
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