The Slumber of the Unused Key

Amidst trinkets and fine dust,
lies a key, without kingdom or lock,
still shining bright, of metal firm, hostile
to its non-use, to its forced stature.
It holds no etched destiny, nor any date,
just a cold silence, a grey shadow,
an expectation that was never satisfied,
a promise with no voice, that does not unfold.

Its teeth, perfect geometries,
designed for one unknown embrace,
rest in a calm without direction,
a motionless seal, forever remote.
Does it dream of forgotten doors,
lost chests, rooms never crossed,
or labyrinths of fallen memories,
to which its curves were always meant.

It does not vibrate in pockets, nor ring with others,
it is a mute monologue, an elegy of iron;
a waiting soul, without its altar,
that still seeks a passage, its true opening.