The Attic Room
Dust motes swirled a pirouette, ponderous stardust
in the light shaft capture, straight as a die;
fired to my chest from the crack in the tiles' armour,
right on target, unnerved my eye.
Laser sighted from the sun, a dot of vibrant gold,
I froze and fixed on it's accurate dart,
it's aim was painstaking and true as death
struck the naked breast, drilled my heart.
There was no real pain, just imagined,
no fatal wound nor spurt of black gore
to decorate the dust drab attic wall
and spill my life across the floor.
Stood here forlorn, forgetting my reason,
the crawlspace and pyramidal ceilings
mirrored then the yawning of my mind,
that chamber of decompressed feelings.
And you, your ghost, or a scent of what we meant,
breezed in, grave trespass upon my cold reverie;
and the inner child wept of grief and longing
for things to be the way they used to be.
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