The Attic

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