The Locksmith Rises from the Dead

The Locksmith Rises from the Dead

No stone to mark, no bell to chime,

he woke beneath the weight of grime,

keys still hooked across his chest,

as if no grave could grant him rest.

He stood, not with a hero’s grace,

but slow, like rust reclaiming space.

Each joint a hinge, each breath a spark,

the world above still cold and dark.

His hands remembered every door:

the bolted ones, the ones that swore

they’d never swing for man or ghost.

He’d cracked them all, or damned near most.

No message came, no call from light.

He rose for lock, not wrong or right.

He rose because the work’s not done,

and some doors fear what he’s become.

The locksmith walks, not seeking fame.

He doesn’t weep, he doesn’t name

the lives he let in or shut out.

He turns the key. He doesn’t doubt.

And somewhere down a hallway bare,

a knob will twitch, then gasp for air.

A handle turns without a touch,

he’s passed through, quiet, never much.

No peace awaits him, just the sound

of latches snapping underground.

His reason To come back?

To collect old debts once more,

and show the beasts he carries on,

much worse than he was before.