Key of Thunder

In the drawer, a rusted key exhales dust.
Time has stopped upon the metal, guardian of the lock.
It waits for the hand that touches it and breaks the silence.
Outside, the thunderstorm holds the city’s breath.
The lock groans at the key’s contact.
A forgotten music roars among raindrops.
Lightning makes the score, thunders are the beats.
Fingers open the door of memory.
The space fills with copper and ozone.
Each note rises, brushing the ledges of darkness.
The wind tunes the woods, the rain sharpens them.
The room becomes an orchestra, the house listens.
When the last note breaks, the thunderstorm retreats.
The key remains damp with clouds upon the table.
The forgotten music stays in the house’s breath.
And if you call it, it reappears, raising the curtain of time.