there's a town not far from here that died twenty years hence
waiting on a spark of hope from a world that wouldn't care
where every shop on Main street boarded up one by one
until there were none left to carry on with its 50s charm
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in that town is a street that ends quietly
near to an orchard of unfulfilled wishes and worries
where every darkened fear became palpable like a storm
gathering against the mewling wind like the tempest of childhood
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and near to one side of that street is a house
slumped forward like the old men at the downtown barbershop
who can only wait on a stranger to naively happen by
and listen to the stories they'll tell until they die
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inside the house are countless rooms scattered like buckshot
with doors that remained closed through evening hours
when families would have gathered to eat dinner or hold together
here the husband and wife and children hid in shadows and shame
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and up the stairs past the cracked wallpaper and broken windows
stepping over the scurrying mice and wandering spiders and webs
past the bedrooms of arguments and fights and huddling in fear
there lies an attic door recessed far into one wall that nobody knew
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behind the attic door is a darkness unwilling to escape
left behind by the residents that filled themselves with loss
vague emptiness gnawing at every edge until the home fell inward
casting confused children to the world like refugees
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and inside of everyone, there's an attic they're unwilling to notice
for fear the temptation to wander inward would be too great
to turn the old brass doorknob of a place left to its own devices
like a feral child raised by wolves in the dying light of a fire
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but if someday you wander near to the thumping chaos inside of you
behind a door you've left closed for reasons you no longer remember
grab yourself a good strong light, gather your courage, a deep breath
and walk through with your arms outstretched