The silver key

when times are lamentable,

lacrimose or just hard;

my baby turns down my offering,

my city is quarenteened,

and i run out of steam,

or the droplet between my ears,

makes faulty commands,

eating an orange,

before brushing teeth,

inserting the zipper,

improperly into its twin,

it is good to wind up again.

i take the silver key,

with its square catchment,

and insert it carefuly in the hole,

hidden behind my right ear.

the relief is noticable,

and i ticktock and rattle,

until the next time.

now, a choice i recall:

‘young gentlman’ said my wardens,

back in my youth , at the swamp,

’eat no ferns,

no trolls with lice

and turn that

wind up key but thrice’

an admonishion,

by those who read,

the owner’s manual.

they were all worried,

you see, winding the gadget,

is a risky business.

turning too much and the spring,

will overload or weaken.

’an overzealous dilettante,

has no future,

where shall you find,

an honest blacksmith,

to repair the damage,

you have wrought?′

the warned.

by highschool i learned,

to think for myself,

and turned the key dangerously.

i turned it three and a half,

four, five six, and so on,

you can imagine the wear.

now, i have come full circle,

too much depends,

on the controlled release,

so the kinkspring i stress,

only when it is unavoidable,

and according to the specifications,

i find other safer forms of self-abuse,

to keep my mind at balance.

the key is tarnished, and scratched,

i only hope, that if i ever lose it,

i only hope, that if i ever lose the key, only hope, that if i ever lose the key,

it will be possible to find a substitute.