Too Many Keys

I have too many keys,
too many doors,
impediments of modern man.

Sagging towards this opportunity;
Heaven doesn’t reveal itself
to a man, thinking of a child.
Supple like a branch.
Blown towards responsibility.
Retreating towards play.
Eventually he snaps,
and falls to the ground.

Dying at such an older age;
almost genetically perfect.
Few live,
few notice the breeze;
few notice the trees.

I have way too many keys,
way too many doors.