Discarded toys strewn left and right
Too hot in the day and too cold at night
They gaze at old photos, faded with age
Filled with emotion, excitement and rage
Boxes of old books and clothes and such
Send clouds of dust at the slightest of touch
The floor itself, wooden and creaky
And the lighting as well is really quite freaky
No one goes up here, not anymore
These things reflect the days come before
The toys do not speak, do not whisper at all
They are merely small cars and the occasional doll
But if they were to talk, oh the tales they would tell
A child had loved them. Forever they dwelled
On make-believe, dress-up, and races galore
But now playtime’s over, and these days are no more
The photos are simple, all stacked up in piles
Showing ice-cream mouths, bright eyes, and gaps in the smiles
They chronicle time, as the weeks and years pass
‘Cause memories are faulty, and can crack just like glass
No one looks at these pictures, no one reminisces
And so photos are left, like inopportune kisses
The boxes hold things that aren’t used anymore
Small clothes bought for children at a discount store
Books that were read, forgotted, and left
Then up to this prison they all were heft
And here and there, the odd knickknack lingers
Mementos, souvenirs, and some porcelain fingers
All this is stuff that’s broken and worthless
So discarded it stays, cold, dank, and mirthless
The attic is crowded with things to be seen
But no one will gaze, not an adult or teen
All these toys, all the photos, the boxes, the clothes
Will never be seen. This they all know
But they have to try to get people to come
So onto the floorboards they start to drum
Speeding up, faster, the creaks, they increase
When all of a sudden they reach a small peace
The door! It has opened! The light has turned on!
There stands a woman, her eyes and face drawn.
“I thought I heard creaking,” she says with a frown.
“Must have been the house settling, and now it’s calmed down.”
The door starts to creak shut. The toys give a gasp.
But then a child comes running. Her small hands are clasped.
“Oh Mommy, please look! Look at all this stuff!”
She picks up a doll and pats at its fluff.
She stares at the photos with light in her eyes.
She looks through the boxes like they are a prize.
Her mother watches her, curiosity clear
All of this stuff she used to hold dear
She fingers the photos, she looks at the dolls
Wondering how they became stuck in these walls
For all the forgotten she silently grieves
Then gathers it all, picks it up, and leaves.