The Attic

In the Attic

Upstairs in the attic,
Away from where what life had done to me resides.
Things all dry-rotted to black and white.

There I always knew,
But all I could do was know.

The attic felt safer.
Cause there
Everything settled down to simple black and white.
In the attic
My small life seemed big.

I chose to live
In the dry, brittle intellect.
And none of it had been my fault.

There, hidden, was the rusted faucet,
From which a universe of ardor once flowed -
The lurid, delicious lethargy of fervor,
Passion so deep and so full,
Its authority once flowing with energy,
A splendid symphony of molten passion.
Now hardened to obsidian.
Reduced to ash.
Turned to clutter.
Dulled to black and white,
Contents fully dry-rotted.

Regrettably, I had always known the answers
Just lacked the courage of conviction to shout them out. 

Knowing was so easy,
It was the conviction ~ born of depth of soul, breadth of spirit ~
This,
Was the hard part.

A brittle, arid, barren, life-size body
Bejeweled with a single tear –
My legacy.