The Melancholy of Discarded Keys

In the dim, dusty hush of a forgotten shelf,
Where shadows like velvet embraced all that lay,
Resided a box, holding secrets itself,
A collection of metal, now faded and grey.

These were the keepers of entrances past,
The silent authorities, once sharp and bright,

Now stripped of their duty, their purpose outlasted,
Lost sentinels yearning for long-vanished light.

A brass key lay tarnished, its intricate teeth
A map of a lock it would turn no more.
It murmured of hallways, both wide and beneath,
And the creak of a threshold it used to explore.

It dreamt of a hand, firm and warm in its hold,
That guided it surely, with confident grace,
To the click of acceptance, a story unfolds,
Of a welcome within, a familiar old place.

A smaller, silver key, delicate and thin,
Remembered a trinket box, lined with soft blue.
It echoed the whispers of secrets held in,
And the gleam of a treasure, just peeking through.

It longed for the touch of a youthful, light hand,
That would gently unlock its delicate keep,
Revealing the wonders it faithfully spanned,
Now lost in the silence of slumbering sleep.

A sturdy iron key, with rust as its stain,
Recalled the stout oak of a garden gate wide.
It sighed for the sun and the kiss of the rain,
And the path that lay winding, where footsteps would glide.

It missed the rough grip of a gardener's toil,
The turning that heralded blooms bright and bold,
The scent of damp earth and the freshly turned soil,
A tale of green life, now forever untold.

A skeleton key, with a whimsical air,
Spoke softly of wardrobes in chambers so grand.
It whispered of garments, beyond all compare,
And the rustle of fabrics, spread over the land

Of forgotten wardrobes, where lavender slept,
And mirrors reflected a bygone facade.
It yearned for the secrets the tall doors had kept,
Now locked in the memory it silently had.

They lay in the darkness, a sorrowful hoard,
Each missing the purpose that gave it its worth.
They clicked in the silence, a language ignored,
Of entrances closed and departures on earth.

A faint, ghostly scrape, as one key brushed past,
Another, a murmur, a sigh in the gloom,
Reminiscing of moments that vanished too fast,
Of laughter and shadows that filled every room.

Did a tear of pure metal, unseen, ever fall,
For the doorways unguarded, the thresholds uncrossed?
Did they dream of a hand that might answer their call,
A new lock to conquer, a purpose embossed?

Perhaps in the heart of a curious soul,
A collector of relics, with eyes keen and bright,
Might find them and grant them a brand new-found role,
A tale to be told in a different soft light.

Until then, they linger, in quiet despair,
These keepers of memories, tarnished and old.
Each a small, silent burden, too heavy to bear,
Of stories unfinished, and futures grown cold.

They wait in the darkness, for fate to decree,
If a hand will reach in, and select one with care,
To unlock a new chapter, and finally free
The melancholy whispers they silently share.

- Khushi Kaul