Where Broken Things Lie
In the attic, there is light.
Not much, granted,
just a flare here and there from the small windows
that punctuate the walls at each end,
spotlights driven by sun and time,
each hour a new exposure,
for this is the place where broken things lie,
the things we save,
knowing few of them will ever emerge
from this dark prison.
Former treasures no longer valued enough to use.
Broken things burdened with memories, a vague value.
History you would rather forget, but can’t quite.
They all cling to you with silent chains, these relics
of who you once were.
They will gather dust here.
They will rust and rot.
But they will not die.
Be sure of that.
The sun will rotate with the hours,
and each piece of you will have its moment on the stage,
nothing ever dies
no matter how deep you bury it.
About this poem
More about memories, trauma and dreams than things.
The picture was taken at the Shaker Villiage in Hancock, Mass.