The key is carved.
The key falls from the pocket of god and rolls into a nearby puddle, languishing.
The key rolls and the days disappear and the nights roar and the key has no home.
The key and me and the key and me we are feeling similarly now and again and then
the key gets picked up and caressed and handled and kept and held unsure if it is getting anywhere near its intended destination and after a long while and inevitably
the key is dropped into a drawer of miscellaneous things until its silently ignored with many other keys.
And we wait.
We hope and dream but mostly wait and eventually on moving day the key is thrown into the trash.
The trash carries the key to and fro and back and up and down and the key rolls once again and the key and me and the key are feeling the same things all of the way… until the key is dropped on the ground, forgotten.
The key is dirty now.
The key is lifted by winds from rains and moved about the surface of the earth without any inclination of proximity to home and then after rolling round on the breeze for miles and miles dusty and worn, the key ends up at the base of the door.
The key lies in front of the right door, for once and finally.
This feels like the worst possible of outcomes to be so close and not be useful though.
So much rolling has gone on.
The key and me and the key and us we accept our fates.
To be so near to the purpose and yet so incredibly irrelevant for eternity.
It is all that the key has ever known.
Until one more gust of wind, one more random push, one more roll for the ages from an unsuspecting shoe and albeit not the way it was designed to happen, the key is kicked inside.
Was this god’s doing or destiny’s and are they not the same thing if they are anything at all?
The key is inside, where it was ultimately supposed to be.
The key has made its way into a home.
The key and you and me…
The key is carved.