Ancient history: Naive poetry: Kate

A keyhole

lies in a weathered door.

Faded and splintered, heavy on wrought hinges.


The young man

looks through the hole

in misery; he kneels painfully.


There she sits

before a shattered mirror

weeping but he doesn’t understand.


He looks left

center, right, up, down

tries to see the rest of the room.


Door blocks sight

he looks for the key

it was safe in a box but the box is lost.


She cries still

he wishes he could

come inside, the only place where she can smile.


But now the

paint peeling from yellowed

walls reveals crumbling mortar underneath.


Maybe if

he cleared his head

he could find his sachet and open the door.


He can’t leave

he sits in a barren hall

with a window six stories from the ground.


Behind him

the passage extends

into a cold white fog. He feels damp.


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