Some Doors are Best Locked

Prompt/Week # 50 A locked door.

Bottom drawer in the ancient jewelry box,
buried beneath old ticket stubs to Broadway plays,
J. Geils, Peter Paul and Mary, Joan Jett concerts,
and a storied pebble of the Berlin Wall
are a handful of old and tarnished keys.
There's no telling what they specifically unlocked,
but that doesn't matter
because they were collected for another reason
and are purely metaphorical.

Doorways or paths to the past
that are best left locked and buried. Forgotten,
in a sense, a place beyond, where they no longer
have the ability to slice one open or
to tempt one down a poor life decision.
The tarnished one leads to a negated forever,
another, still shiny, to a flattened fairy tale, and
the three, defining ridges worn smooth,
to lessons learned the grating way.

Locked doors leading nowhere, now covered
in ivy, poisoness or not, but closed as peace of mind
is on this side, not the far side of the door.
Keys more, now, of a remembrance of things done,
gone, finished and dealt with. These days,
my doors are open, needing no locks or keys.
I have all the freedoms that open with trust,
with love, and with the knowing
that I am enough, fine and treasured.