The Mystery Of The Key

Sees here is an old, key. Is it useless?
Did it lead to somewhere quite glamourous?
Who can tell? Look around what did it fit?
Such secrets withhold evidence omit—
Ah, it's captivating I here admit.

Could it have opened the gates to a palace?
It could have; its's sure heavy enough I guess…
Could it have unlocked some jailors handcuffs?
Or been used as a skeleton key by assassins
Slow your horses Hercule Poirot don't egress.

Pick it up then, hold it up to the light.
Does it have any markings, words or number?
No, none that I can see or discover
Then a hushed silence the air is sombre
A hand rises, from the subsoil like clarified butter.

by Mark Heathcote

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