Afoot.

The verse he worked he kept within a book,
Unlike anything constructed for such task,
Clutched between two ends of walnut form,
Upon the steepest shelf within his walls,
Whose aureate portcullis was secured
And latched by more deadlocks than any safe.

The words were served by no constricting meter,
At the centre of a thousand vacant pages,
Guarded by wood chiseled sentry keepers,
Beyond the reach of inadvertent fingers,
Behind the gilded door of curiosity,
Well chained and key ring kept in steady pockets.

The meaning of the lines was never met,
As the text was left unwinding on its page,
Unable to escape its loyal binding,
More utmost than its culture’s highest ground,
Unknown as every cat had other wonders,
And once revered keys no longer found.