Treasures in the Attic

Soulmates in a sense too grandiose.
Tension filling hours meant to hold
the feel of their repose. Circuits
moving there within the feel of flesh
that dealt with interference.

The natural was left behind
in golden memories of childhood.
Minds warping amid ideologies.
Secrets living in the stealth that
bled from them the feel of health.

Bowing down and kissing ass.
Smothered in another blast of power.
Lying still, because of some decree.
Mere idiots that moved along,
still herded by the lies of history.

Tunnel vision. Ever incomplete.
Giving in to each repeat of violence
that murdered harmony.
Instilled in volumes of dry history.
Pushing down the pull of mystery.

While there in the attic, the tale
was told. In truth of the magic
it held. Faded photographs that
shone with feelings once intoned
in living light.

They spoke, if only anyone would
listen. In prisms of unearthly hues
that shone beyond the black and white
and unlived colors left to tell. Within a weft
and warp still undiluted by their
merely mortal sight.

Where spirit speaks in whispers to
an inner ear that always hears.
In styles that the bankers
can't appraise. Enter here, into
the growing maze of all that is.
Feel the loving touch of spirit's kiss.

Patiently awaiting your decision.
Before the past and future were
defined as a division. The moment now
involves itself within the tall and small.
Speaking in a unity of all that used to be
amid the mystery
of every future's possibility.

Cross eternal bridges that reveal all the past
of pain and agony revealed for naught.
There never really was a god that chose
to die upon a cross of utter agony.
'Twas only mortal men imagining
there own peculiarities in fear of death.

Shriven of their golden cloaks,
each idol held within their hands
dispersed then into smoke. Blown away
within a simple breeze. Burned into
too many minds by cold, uncaring
tomes of history.

Too long, the need for love enhanced,
has waited in the wings. Painful, every
indolent and cold, uncaring touch upon
the strings that used to arbor harmony.
Forced away, the golden hymns of angels
that once healed every hour by a touch
that held the meaning of eternity.

Magical, the grace of subtle meaning.
A mystery, the creativity of only giving.
Caring for and cared for, all at once.
Thus, the love of life must be ensconced
in every nuance of the movements that
we choose to make in every present moment.

As time itself is altered amid glowing
mists of each becoming dream.
Where evermore redeems the nevermore.
Within the mists of ageless golden shores.
Where love lives on. And seeks to teach
the core of life - its immortality.

Treasures stored within a dusty attic.
Waiting for another soul to cherish,
once again, the meaning in the means
of all the love forever always meant to be...

? Michaelette ?

Copyright© 2004 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .