Poetry Thursday

Just some Thursday words.

Under Lock and Key

The Key was brass, the Lock was steel
while the tumblers, spectators, waited,
in their ordered metallic bands.
The Key, tarnished, worn smooth by
careless passing between ceaseless hands.
The Lock, rusted, made brittle by
neglectful storms and lonely circumstance.

Mismatched from the start, this pair,
they found each other by chance.
The Key had lost its mate, left behind;
The Lock guarded a long-forgotten,
listing, rotting, wayward, swaybacked shack.

"I'll set you free," said the brassy Key.
"But this is my place," rasped the Lock.
Each half as useful as could be,
separate serendipity.
"I'll open you yet," the Key said.

And, yes, it tried, fumbling
with Lock's rusty hide.
But Key bent itself upon the Lock
a broken key, without its pride
fell forgotten into the grass.

"I told you that you would fail."
The Lock said to the Key of Brass.
"I did not fail, I had to try,"
replied the Key, as lost, it died.
Leaving the Lock its lonely task,
to guard the long-neglected hasp.

And guard it did, for years and years
as grasses grew, the rusting clasp
held its solitary vigil.
Until Deliverance came, yes!
The Owner walked out to the shack
he carried something in his hand.
"My key, my key!" the Lock exclaimed.
Duty rewarded, the Lock felt grand.

But in Owner's hands there was no Key
Lock shook itself upon the hasp.
Just a blue-steeled bolt cutter, see?
And caught in the bolt cutter's grasp,
Lock gazed down upon the Key,
the brassy one, tarnished and bent.
Tossed aside, lost, uselessly free.

And with a snap, the Lock was rent
to hit the ground beside the Key.
"Free at last," the Lock proclaimed,
two half-useful tools, cast away.
Though tired, broken, bent, and maimed,
the Lock felt happy, anyway.