Mad Woman in the Attic

There's a madwoman in the attic.
I've heard her footsteps in the dawn,
In those still, quiet hours of morning
When shadows tiptoe down the hall.

Yet she spends her days in silence,
Except for a whisper now and then
That brushes through the rafters
Like the fingers of the wind.

As there among the memories
Of all the slowly measured years,
She thumbs through faded photographs
And mixes metaphors with tears.

She writes of faces lost in time,
All the dreams that passed her by,
Then stacks the words in disarray
Among the keepsakes of her life.