The handle rusted, dreams of what it locked,
beneath my ribs a quiet flame simmers,
each riddle carved here like a scar, a call,
no one will answer what these wounds have left.

I trace my finger down the wood,it's cold,
the paint hides the knots and winding cracks,
who built this place of lost and heavy hours?
What vanished soul left words to never hold?

A riddle lives in every shifting board,
the wind writes...