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.
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