My Hand is on the Lock


Do I keep things out? Or in?

I cannot tell. I would not say.

Forged bars are where doors

would compose an opening.


I held the blacksmith’s hammer.

And tongs when I breathed fire.

Placed each bar in tedious fashion.

A wartime plan.


Do I lock the door against? Without?

I select. I would indulge.

A secret keepers combination.

A brave companion.



shelley rae bell