I opened the attic dust rose like ghosts

I opened the attic, dust rose like ghosts,

finding old photographs that memories boast.

A tangle of stories unspooled from their nest,

roots creeping through wood, intertwining the best.

That gnarled photo, colors fading like light,

it anchors the past, making shadows ignite.

Through cracks in the floor, I glimpse at my kin,

familiar faces lost, where old tales begin.

With hands clasped around memories so tight,

I peel back the layers, uncovering plight.

Each root tells a story of laughter and pain,

reminding me always, the past will remain.