Attic

As you walk up the stairs
(are they stairs?
they look more like a ladder
and some steps
had a love child)

palms sweat
(anxious? no,
anticipating)
 

the attic has the glamour of all things mysterious
memories stored in cardboard boxes
dusty old dreams that have been packed away

hands reach up
and knock over a box
beads are sent spilling out
washing away, under cracks and into crevices

Back away, now
maybe that’s a sign
warning
omen
leave the dreams covered in cobwebs
return to your life
close the attic door