The Attic
Dust swirling, a hypnotic dance surrounding, trapping, watching,
blurring our field of vision, the only two people who matter.
No matter how hard we try, little specks will always remain
with us. Age and time carry with them, shrouding, covering, protecting
from being tarnished, but even the best shields aren’t permanent.
Just like the little specks that show when a light is shone through.
Moaning floorboards being burdened with every weary step,
carrying the thoughts, the feelings locked away in the dark.
Unlock the door, throw away the key, take us out of darkness and
into the light. Naked for all to see, no more secrets. No more
fears, just us, this empty attic. A single stream of light from a
crack in the wall, breaking our secrets, revealing us to the world.
Empty drawers holding feelings that we suppress, ready to
burst out, ready to combust, not ready to let go. Not yet.
Each ascent into the attic unveils new feelings, new fights,
old memories. That need nurturing back to life. Back to us.
Silence reverberates throughout the fibres of the room,
passing through us, urging us to speak.
Dust never settles, new patterns, floating together or apart.
I ask the same of us. But one thing is certain,
The dust will never truly be gone.
Expectations
The winter solstice
A myriad of eternal excuses
A helpful hand up or
a pat on the back is often
as damaging as it is helpful
Turning hope into attack
The comfort of failure
The safety net of mediocrity
Crushing ambition into teeny tiny molecules, hidden under our very subconscious
I welcome this
The cost of coping
Versus the pain of carrying on
A simple question
That always hinders its host
Expectations
The imminent disappointment
A one-way street that is traversed by many that are more courageous than I
A solemn tear
A fist clenched
Even the stars above seem judgemental these days
365 days more to watch over me
Sun rise
I can never set
Overthinking
The whistle of a concerned creature, beckoning for my safety
Dazzling lights of a vengeful spirit
There is warmth in those blinding spectres
An answer to a question purely pondered
I reach out my hand
But it cowers
At the thought of knowing
The thought turns cold
It wilts away
But I stay determined
Bashfully wiping tears
As I stray into the abyss
The coldness of metal
Versus the warmth of knowing
I often wonder
If I will ever truly know
A true love’s kiss
From a cruel joke
We are only spectators
On this cold, harsh trip
A beckoning hand
That I slap with despair
Rapturous applause
A silent whimper
A New Day
I peep through the omniscient cracks of my blinds, exposing a vast horizon of spectacular colour. The colours swirl through the sleepy morning, a melodic awakening for those who maybe aren’t as ready to be awoken just yet. Awe crawls over my face, resting in my weary eyes; bringing me the strength to shake those comforting sheets from my soul’s slumbering, yet eternal guardian.
Something seems different about today.
The frost grasps at the divider between myself and this wonderful spectrum of colour and possibility, a little too eager to escape, my breath trying to meet this frost to no avail. I rest these lumbering arms across the windowsill, even the coldness of plastic isn’t enough to deter me this morning. Suddenly, the world seems much more mellow than I had allowed myself to believe.
A day previously assigned to melancholy
suddenly has much more purpose about it now.
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