The Attic

The stairs are creaking like an old casket lid.
Ascending toward the dust covered room
Where all of the tokens of lost love are hid,
Ancient treasures in an undisturbed tomb.
The spiders have been very busy up here
Forever weaving their silken tapestries.
Each one a monument of silver despair
In this shrine of neglect that seems part of me.

With wiping the dust off some old memories
Comes the pain of regret, of what might have been.
A cold draft blows through here. It makes my blood freeze.
Or is it the gun? With it’s cold metal skin.
It sits there asking me if I’d like to dance.
A most tempting offer in this realm of decay.
Listen! As the waltz of shattered dreams begins
I now have an instrument with which I can play.