Attic air

Light falls brittle through a grimy window,

sifting dust like slow-motion rain.

Beams sag, whisper cracks overhead.

Boxes huddle, bulging with old mistakes,

like the breath you hold too long.

The plaster peels away in flakes,

revelations buried behind forgotten names.

A tangled wire hums faintly,

some half-forgotten current

lost in the crawlspace of time.

I breathe this stale attic air,

a graveyard for voices

wrapped in moth-eaten cloth and broken dreams.