I hold the key
to prying open
yet unfathomed
treasure chests.
Treasures that
still lay buried
for the benefit
of but the dead.

Wouldn’t they do
more good
in living hands
instead?
Alas, Death
grips them tightly,
out of reach..
away from hands
of those who tend to
moralize and preach.

She only loosens
her cold fingers
for a reaching hand
that knows to gently
turn the key..
from a possession,
kept concealed..
to a bestowing virtue
that unchains The All of them
into the joyful agony of being..
being free.