The Carved Patience

The key, upon the faded velvet,
sleeps a sleep of metal deeply stored.
It has no door for the wind to reveal,
nor lock turn or harbor explored.

Each tooth, a mark of destiny’s trace,
a precise curve, an iron hollow.
A mute alphabet, clandestine space,
for a code that awaits a word never spoken.

It waits for the instant, its pure design,
that the world may open or close its breath.
An exact architecture, a future
that in its cold womb is already a sigh.