An attic

The attic was dark, dust floated like ghosts,

old trunks filled with whispers, relics I’d lost.

Forgotten toys jumbled with brittle old pages,

making me ponder the weight of the stages.

Here lies the laughter, the heartache, the games,

each box a reminder, each item a name.

Time spilled through the cracks, hidden under the grime,

a treasure of memories, like echoes of time.