A series of unfinished business(es).

When you come back, for the last of the boxes,

I'll be in the attic, breaking my heart over

These little scraps of paper, that mark

The end of another era of safety,

Of disappointments, of mediocrity,

Don't you think?

That I belong right here?

In this dusty attic,

With these sun rays swirling in,

Among the thousands and thousands of

Homeless scraps of paper, stacks of notes,

Old forgotten books, and squiggly little

Numbers running around.

I feel old and gray and wrinkled

Among all these papers,

My orphaned sons and daughters -

I poured out my soul on them.

I think I would like it very much

If you just went on,

And forgot I ever existed.

Come into the attic, see?

There's nobody here, I've 

already moved on,

To the world of the ghosts.

Your eyes pass over the points

Where my teardrops hang

Suspended in the air, glittering,

Like the little jewels they are.

You stop fro a second, wondering,

But then you turn around,

Gone, gone, gone, I sigh with relief.

I can already see it, in my mind's eye -

The car doors slam,

The ill will departs,

The street sighs with relief,

Like the live being that it is.

Gone, gone, gone, to descend,

Like a plague, onto another

World - I see it so clearly,

The foundation creaks

With the weight of it all,

The windows sigh every time

You open them.

Homeless scraps of paper

Flutter about in the wind.

Everything cries out

For the One who is gone forever.

There, can't you hear the wind weeping?

The golden sun rays swirl in,

Tracing patterns on the walls.

Creepers crawl inside -

They hold out their arms to me.

I float from room to room,

And everywhere, everywhere I go,

Jewels hang in the air

Winking back at the sun.

The wind has come back in,

To keep me company.

Tonight it rages hard,

Slams against the walls,

Promises me, it will stay forever;

Net curtains lash wildly about.

My children are screaming in the attic -

They swoop down the stairs,

The wind crashes them around me.

They demand vengeance, clawing my eyes out,

For every drop of ink, every stroke of pen.

Outside, the stars twinkle serenely.

All is as it should be.