I Am What the Lock Remembers

At its core, this poem explores how power is preserved not in display, but in silence, in what is hidden, hoarded, or forgotten.

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I am not the lock.

I am what the lock remembers.

The final whisper

before the world concedes.

They call me brass.

Polished. Royal.

But my spine is forged from oaths

that bled empires dry.

I was made to rule,

to slide into the throat

of forbidden chambers,

to turn where lesser things

splinter.

Every latch knows me by name.

Even silence has a hinge.

I open it.

Magic kissed my edge

once.

A monarch’s tongue—

velvet with lies—

pressed runes into my teeth,

and I have never slept since.

I have seen vaults of dreams

and bones.

Love twisted into ledger.

Crowns locked behind glass

so no one could remember

how heavy they were.

Secrets cling to me.

Each notch

a confession too dear to speak aloud.

I do not forget.

I do not forgive.

I unlock.

And in unlocking,

I destroy.

The King who once wore me

at his breast

now rots

in a chamber I sealed.

Greed is not a shout.

It is a gentle click—

too late to stop.

And the soul?

Oh, the soul is a hallway.

Each door left ajar

until I take everything

not nailed down.

Even now,

they reach for me—

fools and princes alike,

thinking I am salvation,

when I am only

truth with edges.