Combination

Up in the attic, dust motes swim,

A heavy thing, cold in my hand,

I found this padlock on the brim

Of a trunk, warped, from another land.

The iron’s rough, the dial is worn,

The numbers blurred by touch and time,

A secret that was never born,

Lost to some forgotten rhyme.

No key exists, no memory bright,

Just rust that blooms like winter frost,

It holds its secrets, dark as night,

A treasure found, forever lost.