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| The Key |
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| The Key |
| At the back door of my Pain, high, high above on dusty Ledge a key rests, unused, Rusty. It is almost, not quite Visible. Light, at certain Times, reflects its hidden Curve, flashes little glints of Hope…. I reach, on tiptoe, search Above myself; fingers move through Dust, webby leftovers of past Activity, and junk. Stirring Through the ancient stuff sends Clouds of residue upon me. Best left alone, I tell myself, |
| That door need not be opened Anyway…. A hand extended, offers me the Key. I take it eagerly, fit it in the Lock, and turn to ask who Gave it me. Shadowed, still, the Figure speaks: "I gave it Not—I merely pointed to it in your Hand. You had it all the Time…." Then what, I ask, was on the Shelf? "Fear," says he, and Anger. Very real, they Need to be disturbed from Dusty beds. The key you hold is Faith, and hope and willingness." |