The last box gone the dust motes stirred

The last box gone, the dust motes stirred

from thirty years of quiet sleep.

I pulled the door, I spoke no word,

just watched the shadows start to creep.

The old brass latch, a dull soft sound,

clicked shut, a final, weary sigh.

No other footsteps will be found

behind that door, beneath that sky.

It wasn't loud, no sudden crash,

just quiet metal, worn and gray.

A history, turned into ash,

or simply, finally, put away.

And all those secrets, locked inside,

the childhood scrawls, the sudden fights,

just sealed. No place for them to hide.

It latched the end of all those nights.