The Locksmith’s Last Key

The Locksmith’s Last Key

He came at dusk, with iron breath,

Keys whispering low in his coat,

Each one held a door long buried,

Each one knew a throat.

His hands were thin, like winter branches,

Cold as the underside of stone,

He never knocked, he never waited,

He always found his own.

Inside the locks, something listened,

Something turned before he tried,

As though the doors were tired of holding,

What lived and clawed inside.

A woman once had begged him, shaking,

Do not open what you feel,

He smiled slow, as if remembering,

Something sealed that should not heal.

The key he chose was black and silent,

No teeth, no mark, no name,

Yet when it touched the trembling metal,

The lock gave way the same.

The house did breathe, I swear it breathed,

The walls pulled tight and near,

And from the dark behind that threshold,

Came a sound too close to hear.

Not loud, not sharp, not even human,

But thick, like grief that rots,

The kind that lives in hollow places,

And waits in hidden knots.

He stepped inside, the door unguarded,

And left it open wide,

As though inviting all the shadows,

To follow him inside.

I watched, I should not have been watching,

Yet still I could not flee,

For in my hand he left behind him,

One last, crooked key.

It warms at night, it hums like breathing,

It calls me to the door,

And though I pray I never use it,

I hear the lock ask for more.

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