A work in progress, probably always will be |
The Attic There is a spiral staircase leading to the attic of my mind I go there to visit myself, it helps me to unwind It’s full of dust covered chests in which memories are neatly stowed away To be revisited and remembered during quiet times such as today Some good, some not, some better off forgotten Time worn drapery covers the window, emotionally faded, woefully rotten A cracked mirror dangles precariously from a wire, off center a bit Looking closely I can barely see all the images of me still in it Thin trickles of light sneak through the cracks and dance upon the floor In memory of those I have loved who are here no more Theatrical masks adorn the walls, smiling and frowning All the ones I’ve worn when in the world I was drowning Cobwebs, like once held beliefs, hang lifelessly from a rafter Dead as the notions of good guys always win and happily ever after The attic boards creak as I walk across the room Recalling sounds of laughter and sobs of gloom There is water damage from all the tears I have wept Lost love, betrayal, promises never kept Long forgotten toys lie scattered randomly about A smile touches my lips, there’s the stuffed bear I once couldn’t live without Shadows darken the corners, in them cowers the man I used to be No one remembers him now, sometimes not even me All of who I am is locked away in this musty ole’ place Hidden away in my own private crawl space I always bring some reality back down those spiral stairs But in revisiting the past I always leave a piece of me up there |