“The Attic of My Soul”

My soul has become desolate, no more than an attic to where I stow those empty hopes and dreams. A lifetime of hollow memories, promises broken, vows unfulfilled. I find myself entering that once unlocked door, which leads me into the attic of my soul. I slowly move through the clutter of old dust covered boxes and crates, an old foot locker here, an antique trunk over there.
Pieces of my memories, from the times long since pass, there in the corner the old rocking horse of my childhood long forgotten. Looking to my right I can make out in the low dim light, my old toy box filled with all those toys from my past.
Moving through the clutter of all these things I locked away from my past, I sit down in front of an old steamer trunk, stack high on top of it, books of childhood fables, gently raising one, as I blow the layer of dust free from its resting place.
The air is hot and dry in this attic of my forgotten memories, I watch as the dust settles as it passes through the cascading sunlight of a nearby attic window. I sit a look around the attic of my soul, of all those things from my past. My mind fights to remember of all the times and places I was at, before these things were stowed away from my past safely locked away into the attic of my soul.
© 2008 By: H. Dirk Macgrieve