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keys to the kingdom
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kingdom keys — a morning procession
The lock turns,
the hinges remember,
the air is a herald,
the light is a choir.
I am handed the cup,
steam banners unfurl,
the table is a long road,
the chair is a throne.
The paper waits,
the ink bows its head,
the words arrive barefoot,
they kneel in the margin.
No crown, no court,
yet the gates swing wide,
the floor is a flagstone path,
the walls are watchtowers of quiet.
My hands are the keys,
my breath is the kingdom,
each sip is a treaty signed,
each glance a banner raised.
I enter,
I belong,
the day bends its knee,
and I walk through.
.
.
