The Beautiful Lie of Keys

So many keys.
Brass and steel.
New and old.
Skeleton keys.
Tiny little keys,
each of them opened something,
somewhere,
sometime,
and now the things that were once opened
have vanished
And all that remains,
are the keys.

They are toys now,
museum pieces,
curiosities,
beautiful things with no purpose,
only a reminder of things once locked away,
for safety, for secrets, for silence,
once important enough
for locks and of course,
keys.

That perhaps is the greatest secret,
that there are no secrets,
only love and work and belief
that keys are pointless things,
wasted time and energy,
a beautiful lie
that we can ever be safe
from evil,
or good.

About this poem. 

If I told you all the things that came together to write this poem, it would make your head spin. So just enjoy it and add your own meaning to it all.

The picture was taken at an antique shop in Cambridge, New York. ,

Tom