Life as a Bunch of Keys
They give you, at the start, a heavy ring,
A cluttered fist of cold, metallic things.
Some tarnished, some are bright, all promising
To open something. This is what life brings.
You stand before the door, of chance or love,
Or purpose, carved with symbols high above.
You search the jagged teeth, the shapes thereof,
And lift the first key with a nervous shove.
It turns, but not enough. The bolt holds fast.
The next key fits, but it is worn and past
Its use. The next one bends. You’re failing fast.
The jangling mockery of every cast.
Off chance grows loud. The pressure makes you blind.
You try the first key again, just to find
You force it now, with an uncertain mind
The very one that might have been designed
To slip the lock with an effortless click,
Seems false beneath the fear, and makes you sick
With doubt. You cycle through, feeling the tick
Of time, each failure like a mortal nick.
Your wrist grows tired. The ring a leaden weight.
Some doors you leave, convinced it is too late,
Or that the room beyond was merely fate’s
Cruel joke. You learn to hesitate,
To test each one with a hesitant hand,
Upon a threshold you don’t understand.
This is the struggle every soul has planned:
To sort the given keys, and where to stand.
And yet, the grace note in this tired dance:
Sometimes, by luck, or stubborn perseverance,
The hidden latch gives way to a quick glance,
And the right metal sings, and you advance.
But never forget the subtle, quiet grief
For doors unlocked by sheerest naive belief,
Or those you opened, finding your relief
Was brief, and that the room was scant and brief.
So carry on with your collected steel,
And know the ache you feel is truly real.
The art is knowing when to trust the feel
Of one true key, and trust the turning wheel.
(The figure man who loves alphabets)
IMAGE BY AI
