All my journals are stored in the attic-
along with albums, letters and what not.
For years on they will remain there static
till they just become some entangled knots.
Sometimes I pass by and look up at them-
silently they sit with a calm repose.
Filled with my thoughts and writings are these gems-
and my picture with a beautiful pose.
I climb the attic to clear the old web.
Could I discard these memories for space?
Tears flow, emotions at their lowest ebb-
but soon this maze new tidings shall replace.
New books, new photos- the attic ages.
And yet remains the scent of those pages.
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