Attic Weight

The air was thick, like breath held long,

a smell of cedar, dry and deep.

Where every misplaced, silent song

of generations fell asleep.

A single bulb, a tired gleam,

lit shadows on the plaster wall.

A headless mannequin, a dream

of dresses that no longer call.

Newspapers, tied with brittle string,

went yellow at the edge.

A grit of time on everything,

a quiet, solemn pledge.

I moved the boxes, stirred the dust,

a story in each fold.

This heavy room, a hidden trust,

of things both new and old.