Narrative

in the dusty attic 
of my secluded mind 
rests a book, adorned 
with golden strands 
woven by the hands 
of time itself 
as season past 
settle did the dust 
on its cover 
that held the parchments 
of my luscious memories, 
now yellow stained 
a sacred book 
preserved 
within the sanctuary 
of a coppery-red pirate chest 
embedded with the 
false bravados of my youth 
like carefree smiles 
lavishly bestowed 
on a summers day 
these kaleidoscopes of 
whimsical sunbeams 
dancing, streaming 
through my 
techni- colored windows 
of love, lost and won 
in the quite of night 
when 
crickets bravely sing 
and silvery cobwebs 
are quietly spun, 
ever so gently swayed 
by the breath 
of a single firefly 
the old hobble horse 
of life, 
rocks back and forth, still

The attic