Poem: Keys

Something catches my eye from the table; "There they are," I sigh. As I lift the keys and turn them in my hands The cold silvery metal glints and shines.

The teeth have been worn down, Like the teeth of my late grandfather. I can see the scratch-marks from his thumbnail Etched into their metal faces.

The keyring seems yet unscathed; He must have replaced it, no He did replace it, just two years ago When the first got caught in a door and snapped.

I slip my finger through the loop And twirl the keys around. I remember grandpa doing the same So long ago, when he could drive.

--Sangheilioz 21:06, 18 August 2008 (UTC)

[User Page: Sangheilioz]