If the attic could talk,
what stories would it tell?
Old clothes, ugly ties;
what’s that smell?
Boxes of pictures,
a dusty bike,
“we might need that lamp some day,”
presents we no longer like.
If the attic could read,
what stories would it tell?
Old love letters, report cards;
a trombone we meant to sell.
A life of collected fragments
sit covered in dust.
If the attic could rearrange the randomness
what would it say about us?
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My inner poet begs to be set free. Some of these musings are old, some are new; some observed, others lived. Enjoy.
2 comments:
Yeah, what is that smell? LOL
This is fun... I love that attics act as sort of a time capsule of our good intentions.
Cool, isn't it?
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