attic eulogies

the setting sun cast a stream of sloth
through the open window
as the rocking chair creaks against the failing floorboards
here, the smells that rise through the air
leave us tasting, only wanting more
(but you can still hear her now)
softly singing, a fluid sweeping
her notes rise like warm dreams
through the cracks in the attic floor

the windows remain stained
the stale hopes of whispers past
writings on the walls
the ghosts of words on a page
this story, the endings twist slowly
alone, this act, portrayed on a stage
whispers, and the ghosts of words on a page

an old widow, waiting at the upstairs window
for her sailor lost at sea
but he found, beneath the waves
the importance of the silence
that accompanies a saltwater coffin

the wind that sifts through broken panes
whispers, the semblance of a story
it occured to me softly
the setting sun a sigh of relief
the silent agony of ashes on the breeze
the spiderwebs clothing room corners
whispers
alone, this act, portrayed in the attic