The Attic

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The Attic


My mind went wandering
while I slept one night,
and opened up a room
I had shut,
and shut for a reason.
Rummaged around in the things there.


I woke shaking, quite upset.
My dreams betraying the trespass
by my subconscious,
over which I have no hold,
but disturbing just the same.


So I went to that room,
set in my mind
to stop this from happening again.


The room smelled of her
and it set me shaking.
Boxes upset, spilling out
her poetry and photographs,
pictures and films of her.
Art meant for me, the sincerest of gifts.
And some not meant for me,
which I kept anyway, in my greed.


The place was every atom her,
as if some shrine carved from her bones.
But all too painful to behold now;
relics of a time gone by,
a person gone by, and gone.
And for all the good they'd done me
I wanted her gone.


So I set about destroying.
Burning the papers and photos,
bits of video tape, radio stations.
It took such will I didn't know I had
to save not one scrap.
To not lose myself in a lingering picture or word,
that by itself means nothing,
but because of her, meant the world.


So much time and tedious effort,
bleaching and painting,
scrubbing even her fingerprints from the stones.
And the last place her feet rested
before pulling them into bed,
and the place they landed again
in the morning.


At last I was satisfied,
the room sterile, white and serene.
So I left it unlocked
and thought to gather some new things
to place within.


When I had collected some
I returned
to put them away for later,
but the room still smelled of her,
and always will,
and it set me shaking.


So I'll never be rid of her.
No matter how I try to lock or bar
that wretched door,
no sooner have I begun to forget
then my mind will wander back there 
and leave me dreaming
of things better left behind.
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There you have it, post number four. (approach with trepidation)