Lock and Key

She hears the key in the door.
It locks her in.

Or does it lock her out?

Maybe it's just an illusion,

this idea of transgression.

Where is it written

that there are places she cannot go?

Has she not climbed the peaks of joy

and waded the pits of madness?

She has seen love unfurl

like petals in June sun,

only to turn to dust.

But even when cast out,
(wandering in the desert)

she can strike her staff into the earth

and make the water flow.
Innocent.
Inviolable.
Insouciant,
bedecked in feathers and rags.

She examines her reflection,
powders her nose,

and wonders at her magic.

And now the closed door.

Lock and key

weigh like a stone in her heart.
Charms fail,
conjures betray.

Not even Houdini's tricks

are effective here. 

The moon rises; all is lost.
Now becomes the time after.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.