In the Attic
A large spider watches its reflection in a dusty mirror.
It cast a dense veil woven from white threads, over the silver surface
And the world became blurred, with only the contours being visible.
The time stopped inside a broken grandfather clock.
It is silent, trapped between the many gears of the mechanism.
Twice a day, the spread hands indicate passing.
In the deep drawers of an old, oak cupboard,
Black and white photographs of smiling, nameless people, slumber.
They are incapable of telling long-forgotten tales.
Dresses made of good quality materials, hang in the creaking armoire.
Unfashionable, sentenced to the odor of mothballs, and inertia, they dream about the sun.
They believe that someday their fortune will change, and they will see the light.
Books with yellowed leaves, dreaming inside cartons,
Have memorized the touch of many hands, teardrops, and reflections.
Sometimes they leave the attic to share their knowledge and sentiment.