My Attic

My head is an attic
filled with the dramatic,
of loves sorrows
bored through
with poisoned arrows.

Memories
of one night stands
that no one understands
heartbreaks,
of passions rejected
diligently dissected.

Ghosts
carefully folded
in boxes moulded
cast aside,
in shadows
forever shrouded.

Recollections
stored as loving
souvenirs.
But the bones
of the passed
remain,
in casts of glass.

My attic is full
of colourful images,
families and lovers.
Suppressed jealousies
vanquished fears
fallen tears,
kept in bubbles.

My head is an attic
screaming emphatic
release! release!
Refusing,
to be at peace.

Yet, my attic,
my private place
my life, hoarded away.
Kept safely at bay
within the realms
of minds subspace
never to let loose
without,
turning insane.
© Alan Noakes