The Key

Not merely cut steel,
or brass, but a whisper
of intent, forged.

It sleeps, a dull twin
to countless others,
in the palm of the hand.

But turn it, gently,
towards a locked gaze,
a stubborn silence.

Feel the wards reshape,
not to physical tumblers,
but to the intricate clasps

of a held breath,
a forgotten path,
a nascent dream.

This small, cold weight
is not for opening doors
of wood, but the unseen gates
of what could be.

A whisper of sky, a tranquil sea,
Blue settles softly, deep and wide.
Within its silent majesty,
A gentle, calming peace abides.

The universe's vastness is not a void to be filled, but a fundamental property that defines the very concept of 'here' and 'there'.

Is time a river we flow through, or merely the ever-unfolding present we constantly arrive at?

We are made of stardust, contemplating stardust, wondering about the stardust yet to be.