Under Construction

Behind a secret paint-worn door,
With curlicues and locks of rust,
I hear a melancholic sigh,
The fractured sounds of childhood lost,

I dare not turn the brittle key,
And risk a pinch of yesteryear,
Come darting through a crack in time,
To pierce my heart with memories.

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Yet if I turn and walk away,
What happens then to innocence?
Abandoned there in time to taint,
A voice to grow in dark cadence.

And so with fear in my bones,
I gather up my scant reserve,
I grasp the key with halted breath,
At first it grates, then yields to me.

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