Key

Not every door is made of wood,

not every lock is seen—

some hide behind a quiet smile,

in spaces in between.

I carried keys I never knew,

they slept inside my chest,

soft echoes of forgotten truths

that never let me rest.

One turned in pain, one turned in hope,

one carved from letting go,

one shaped by every silent tear

I never chose to show.

And then there was the simplest one—

no gold, no weight, no shine,

it opened what I feared the most:

a heart that once was mine.

So if you search for doors in life

that will not yield or bend,

look not for keys in distant hands—

they’ve lived in you, my friend.