Something Brass

The brass key hangs heavy against my palm,

its cold, tarnished sheen somehow feels calm.

This old keychain, a relic from yesteryear,

whispers of doors that were once held dear.

It carries the weight of secrets I’ve stored,

like heartbeats that flicker, a memory adored.

Yet in every crevice, there’s rust that remains,

each mark is a story, a chorus of pains.