songsandstories.net

Ghosts in the Attic
by John O’Brien, Jr.

Ghosts in the attic, hidden in a box.
I move aside the history, among Broken Clocks.
Hidden in the bottom, hoping to be missed,
lightly yellowed, where the sun had once kissed,
another box , and another, in another box.
Experimentally open the door, to the past’s pervasive knocks.
Small medals, old letters, as I sit down hard.
I can’t see the time, just glimpse a little shard -
sharp and bleeding, the edges are so blurred.
What had hatred spawned? What had wrath incurred?

Plagued heart, plagued soul, beaten too much?
Were you missing love or maybe a tender touch?
A future so empty, a day of no vision?
Otherworld preferred, no door from your prison?
But to murder a gift? A life’s a virtuoso.
To snuff out animation, to simply crush its’ prose so?
What did you see, that you saw no good,
that you abandoning life – and your parenthood?
Could you feel no sun and weighted by the rain
Did you fight like a wildcat or just accept the pain?

Unbridgeable? Uncrossed? A private chasm?
Premeditated murder or desperate spasm?
Did not someone see, was no one aware?
Were they afraid of him too or could they not dare?
Could no brothers nor priests, nor saviors get through?
Could no one see, what was happening to you?
And in the end, when you gave up the fight,
did you expect to see the devil or pray a heavenly light?
A virtuoso is gone, she sings no more.
I guess the legacy lives, in the hearts it tore.

Tho’ I know not the meaning,
My heart sobs, it cries.
That no one could stop,
your suicide.

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This entry was posted on Friday, August 28th, 2009 at 10:08 pm and is filed under Festival Legends, The Book. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.