Key Without a Lock

A key barely remembers its own days,
cold metal that doesn’t know which lock it belongs to.
Every engraving is a fragment of a closed door,
a whisper of spaces that will never open again.
It walks in the pocket, a memory without a home,
the question remains: to whom does that memory belong?
Yet it shines, confident in time,
remembering is searching for a door that doesn’t exist. #

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