Liminality of the Mental Blueprints and the Finishing

I forged a key that didn't fit,

into the memory with rust-crusted padlocks

I forged the furtile ring of keys

that never brushed a padlock.

that rusted by the neglect of my hands.

My fingers scratch at them open,

but they freezing their wheels into confidentiality.

the sisters floating out of grip

Ducking behind the cryptic words to compensate for time.

My mind as stationary as a coat-hanger

Shall I commit?

What should I do?

What shall the ink-pen scrabble next?

Do I surrender? Do I slither on?

I still breathe in this liminality of finished and the unfinished?

The old padlocks have rusted.

Time to dig out new ones,

as I await the Muse yet-to-be born

to bestow novelty keys?

Shall I keep forging my keys?

Maybe it was best I crafted my own padlocks

while I'll enter doors with uncharted space.