The Attic (first poem posted)

 

My mind

attic to my house,
cluttered with antique furniture, paintings, books, boxes of pads of scribbled poetry, a grammar phone to listen to a collection of vinyls.

 

Dank and dusty

yet nothing to fear

of the memories embedded there

 

when its time

I can escape ambulance chasers,

attention seeking bible sellers

carpet baggers banging on the front door

news broadcasting tragedy dealers

 

doing their best to poison my soul

 

nonchalant

turning off,

pulling the curtains,

locking the doors

 

I unlatch the step ladder

ascending

to the garden of my temple

 

lighting a torch

to illuminate the verse

versing itself to the beat

of the sweet music

playing itself as background sound

 

meeting myself

I ignite my pen

seed it from opposite ends

joining it in the middle

 

feeling the glow

resonating from my heart

 

the attic becomes

my mandala

a sacred space

invoking

these lines

 

 

 

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