As I climb this staircase, so high,
to the attic of my mind,
I say my melancholic goodbye,
stashing away what I don't want anyone to find.
With rusty lock in hand,
I stare at this old trunk,
I breathe to understand,
for my heart has sunk.
I bring them out once in a while,
the dreams gone with the dust,
go through the same internal trial;
I should. I could. I must.
I stare at the blue gardens from the windows
and the matching wide skies.
I stay here within the shadows,
inhabited by moths and black butterflies.