The air hangs thick with mothball scent,
Sunlight spills through cracks, a hesitant ascent.
Dust motes dance in golden beams,
A symphony of forgotten dreams.
I climb the creaking stairs, a whisper in the air,
To this forgotten space, where time seems to stand still there.
Old trunks, their leather worn and cracked,
Hold secrets whispered, never to be unracked.
A faded photograph, a face I can't recall,
A child's toy, a broken doll.
Each object breathes a silent sigh,
A story whispered, a tear in the eye.
In this dusty attic, memories reside,
Of laughter shared, and love that once did abide.
I hold my breath, and close my eyes,
And feel the past come alive, in its bittersweet guise.
The years may pass, the world may change,
But here, in this attic, my heart will rearrange.
The echoes of the past, a comforting refrain,
A whisper of who I was, and who I will remain.