A Poem From The Attic

In the deep, dry gloam,

above my happy, healthy home,

lives a quiet, lonely space,

a world left out of place.

 

A weight upon the house,

but silent as a mouse,

comforting but somehow eerie,

to make my glance grow leery.

 

On a dusty table I see a page,

blurry, penciled words draw my gaze,

a written work lay there lost and unread,

a  poem from the attic by a poet long dead.

 

5 thoughts on “A Poem From The Attic

    1. Thank you Patrick! Unfortunately I’ve not had the time to get into many blogs…yours and Randy’s regularly. Maybe I’ll find some time somewhere, I do see some great writing going on around here.:)

      1. Ha! That’s exactly the problem I had when I was first nominated. 🙂 I gave the same explanation to the person who nominated me.

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