An Attic

an attic

Not sure how the attic got associated with dark,
Calling your curious self to have a look at it.

In the dark space you would see the objects of the past,
Broken, chipped off and dead.

Then there are hidden figures,
Tired of fighting battles.

Weary souls taking a rest,
Hidden in its shady corners.

Fragranced potpourri of memories
Dipped in regrets, loss, anger and vengeance.

Bottled up frustrations often hidden as a treasure,
Forgotten and later found by another.

Dust covers all of it,
Cobwebs tying the feelings tight.

Soothing darkness play whisper game,
It is kind-hearted.

– Emily Parker


Posted on

November 24, 2020

Submit a Comment

Your email address will not be published.