The Locksmith’s Widow.

The Locksmith’s Widow.

She sleeps beside the ticking frame

of something forged without a name.

A workshop swallowed by the dust,

its latches lined with blood and trust.

No mirrors hang upon her wall,

she fears the shapes that sometimes call.

A single nail holds back the air

from swinging open what’s not there.

At dusk, she oils a length of chain

that hums with something not quite sane.

Its links remember things she hid—

a scream, a vow, a coffin lid.

The neighbors say her rooms are cold,

that nights run strange, the clocks too bold.

And once a man dared knock her gate—

his hands returned, but not his fate.

She drinks from cups that smell of steel

and murmurs, “Locks know how to feel.”

Her breath is filed, her tongue is bent,

each whisper greased with punishment.

And buried deep beneath her bed

are keys she’s grown inside the dead.

She feeds them iron, tooth by tooth,

until they twist and hum the truth.

Don’t ask her what the locksmith knew.

She’ll offer you a key or two.

Then watch you leave, all proud and brave—

a future tenant of her grave.