The Attic

Attic

The windows of his eyes slammed shut abruptly.
He turned inside and fled up to the attic of his Self,
Pulling the creaky ladder up behind him
So none could follow in his steps, none behold his pain.

There, midst the detritus and clutter of the past,
His bastion stocked with memories and time worn images,
His repository of both good and evil,
He laid the hurt until the moths of time subdued the same.

The loft held trunks of shame and crates of anguish,
Yet near to them stood urns of joy and albums over-filled
With rapture saved from days gone gently by.
This fortress/sanctuary, carried deep within, was his to claim.

He claimed and stayed among the tattered remnants,
Until at last the musty air became oppressive and
The peace of solitude grew less consoling.
His Spirit mended, craving light and contact once again.

The ladder stairs are lowered for a moment,
He reemerges lighter than the fleeing soul he was,
For behind him in the attic are left burdens
For Time to heal. His opened eyes return to life's domain.