The Locksmith’s Teeth

The Locksmith’s Teeth

They buried him deep with a padlock grin,

The locksmith born with keys for skin.

He spoke in clicks, in twists of brass,

And dreamed of doors no soul could pass.

His fingers turned in silent prayer,

Each knuckle notched with wear and care.

They say he built a vault of bone

To keep his final thoughts unknown.

But late at night, the hinges creak,

A phantom lock begins to speak.

It hums a code the dead still keep,

Then shuts again and feigns its sleep.

Now rust collects where secrets leak,

And graves around him groan and shriek.

The keyless come with empty palms

To beg the thief of silence alms.

Some say he waits beneath the floor,

Not dead, but nested in a door—

One built from riddles, rimmed with frost,

That opens only for the lost.

And if you knock, be sure you mean.

He answers those who go unseen.

No turning back, no final breath,

Once called, he speaks in locks and death.

The Locksmith keeps what time forgets,

In shadowed drawers and pirouettes.

The cost is steep, the toll is real.

He’ll trade your name for what you steal