Bare with me, this is only the second poem I've ever written in my life. So please, attack it, tell me what I should change so I don't hand in this meagre attempt at poetry. THANKS!
Her two eyes, once filled with glinting hope
now look through me,
weaving through the reeds, memories,
in the ocean that doesn't exist.
In her hand, she holds the key,
rusted, worn, too small for her fingers to hold.
There's a chip missing on the round handle,
lost to another time,
broken off while trying to chisel a way
into the heart that has been barred,
since she died in everything
but name.
She sits alone, surrounded by her ghosts,
murky memories.
All that is heard is her rocking chair creaking,
like the voice of the child she left
behind.
Those thoughts reside on a plain
that she doesn't even know exists.
She rocks faster at the thought of finding them.
The stories couldn't save her.
All she feels is the impression of the key on her palm,
so rusted she can't read the name or brand,
left in a lock to corrode,
decay,
fall apart.
A sinking ship, a fleeting dream,
a skeleton in a watery grave.
A child swimming across the threshold of reality,
alive in spirit, dead in name,
a mother lost in the keyhole of her soul.
Afraid to feel,
afraid to live.
Afraid to remember
how to breath life into death.
Perhaps she'll pour salt in her wounds.
Maybe that way the door will unlock.
