The Key In The Lock

She was a delicate girl, say the wiltedd flowers on the windowsill abouve the bed;

a blissful girl too, say the timeless memories posted to a board barely hanging on the wall;

and a quiet, enigmatic girl, say the unknown words scibbled in a journal with it's sheets

torn to pieces amoungst the floor; but not a girl for confinement say the turned key

in the lock of the door left wide open.

An ill man lived here, say the shattered beeer bottles scattered across the kitch tile;

he was angry man, say the walls that hold many chilling secrets. Money was scarce, 

say the dimly lit rooms and the empty cabinet shelves. And the days long, say the dishes

sitting in the dirty sink.

It was dreadful here, says the dark and abandoned bedroom. Something went wrong,

say the broken picture frames and the lifeless hallway she once walked.  The carelessly

packed cardboard boxes say she was no longer confinded; the shards of glass and the 

mortifying memories left say she was absolutely terrified.  And the key in the lock 

of the door left wide open? It was the safe haven slowly but surely being restored 

in the girl, once delicate. Finally, something went right.