The Key That Knows

The Key That Knows

A key hangs on a wall that should be blank,

Its metal hums faintly, alive with patience,

Turning it feels impossible yet inevitable,

As if the lock waits for a hand it recognises.

Shadows pool beneath corners of the room,

Cracks in the plaster vibrate softly with whisper,

Each attempt shifts something, subtle but real,

A weight presses behind the doors, unseen but present.

Voices rise from empty spaces, urgent, deliberate,

Promises and threats curl through the floorboards,

The air trembles, heavy with unspoken bargains,

Every move measured, impossible to undo.

The key pulses beneath fingers daring to touch,

The lock waits for shapes I cannot form,

The room leans inward, patient and hungry,

Every heartbeat echoes a choice I have not made.

Time distorts around the key, bending without mercy,

Walls shift as though they were alive, observing,

Steps echo, though I have not moved,

The house leans closer, calculating, relentless.

Turning it may release freedom—or capture,

A single motion could rewrite what exists,

Every shadow watches, silent and unblinking,

The key waits, older than fear or desire.