An evocative poem about the attic from Deeya.
Each morning the segregated sun
parades into the still air, raucous
with the gnawing of termites for
the fond warmth. A hushed figure
steals into the captive air, nostrils
inundated with the smell of
dusty boxes, worn-out trunks, rusty hinges
and forfeited wares.
Each night, in New Moon nights
she conceives knowing well it would
die the next day and not a trace be found.
Still, on Nights like these she’s immortal
only to wither by day, immaculate
only to be dishevelled and ageless
only to crumble by
the deteriorating sun.
Pic from Net.