POEM - A Casket Without A Key

Beneath the soil where shadows creep,

There lies a box in silence deep.

Its edges worn, its hinges cold,

A story trapped, untold, unsold.

Carved of oak, with iron bands,

Made by unknown, forgotten hands.

No lock to pick, no clasp to pry,

Just sealed beneath the earth and sky.

Its presence known to those who seek,

Who walk the woods with hearts oblique.

They find it near the twisted tree,

A casket there—but no known key.

They knock, they pull, they curse, they cry,

But never once does it comply.

Its lid stays firm, its purpose veiled,

A mute reply where all have failed.

Some say it holds a lover's heart,

Who died alone, torn worlds apart.

Some claim it's cursed, a witch's snare,

A vessel wrought from loss and care.

Old men recount, by fireside glow,

The tales from centuries ago:

Of travelers lost, of dreamers slain,

All seeking what the box contained.

By morning’s mist or midnight’s grief,

The casket waits beyond belief.

No rust, no rot, through time it stays,

Untouched by decades, floods, or blaze.

A scholar came with tools and thought,

Believing knowledge can't be bought.

He measured, mapped, with focus keen,

But left undone, pale-faced, unseen.

A priest arrived with holy writ,

Prayers chanted where the shadows sit.

He sprinkled salt, and incense burned,

Yet still the casket never turned.

A thief once came with hardened hands,

With crowbar, hammer, selfish plans.

He struck and pried, but all in vain,

The wood held fast; he left in pain.

Some nights beneath the silver moon,

Soft whispers drift, a spectral tune.

No source to find, no voice to place,

Yet chills run cold on every face.

A child once knelt and softly wept,

Beside the box, she secrets kept.

And when she rose, the winds grew still,

As if the earth had bent its will.

Years pass, the seasons coil and spin,

Yet none unlock what's held within.

The forest grows, the moss creeps tight,

Still stands the casket, out of sight.

And yet each decade brings new feet,

New souls to find this grave discreet.

The brave, the curious, the lost,

All meet the box, and pay the cost.

One dreamer came, with poems in hand,

With words like waves upon the sand.

She sat and sang of love and grief,

Of joys and loss beyond belief.

Her tears fell soft on ancient lid,

And something stirred, though still it hid.

No crack appeared, no sudden snap,

But air grew warm within the gap.

A hum arose from deep inside,

As though the box itself had sighed.

Yet when she left, it stayed the same,

The casket still without a name.

And now you ask, what lies below?

What truth the casket will not show?

A heart? A curse? A dream? A lie?

A secret meant for none but sky?

Perhaps it holds the weight of time,

The echo of a long-lost rhyme.

A memory sealed to keep us sane,

From knowing sorrow’s full domain.

Or maybe there’s no grand design,

No treasure chest, no warning sign.

Just human need to solve and see,

To seek the key for mystery.

So let it rest where roots entwine,

This silent vault, this faultless shrine.

For sometimes wonder, left unread,

Is richer than the truths we dread.

A casket waits where none agree,

Forever locked—without a key.

Short Summary:

The poem "A Casket Without a Key" explores the haunting presence of a mysterious, unopenable casket buried deep in the woods. Generations of people—scholars, priests, thieves, and dreamers—approach it, each with their own motives and tools, but none succeed in opening it. Over time, the casket becomes a symbol of unsolvable mystery, human longing, and the allure of the unknown. Its secret remains untouched, serving as a metaphor for questions in life that may be better left unanswered.