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