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Attic Space

Updated: Feb 2


I have known the antediluvian grief of boxes,

Dilapidating in their corner, moth-snack,

All the tangled stress of string light and broken colorful balls,

Abandonment in concealed, memory-packed places,

Pristine porcelain doll, finger painting, playdough pottery,

The eternal nostalgia of baby bonnet and rolling rocket,

Memorial of typewriter, tricycle, three-legged toddler’s table,

The immortal impression of trinkets and toys.

And I have smelled rust on the exposed ceiling nails,

Sharper than shards, more menacing than beneath-bed monsters,

Corroded, almost consumed, through long decades of neglect,

Watching a little lady beneath and threatening to fall,

Wanting the demise of delicate dolls and decorations.

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