wrttien on-15 july 2011                                                                                  

                                                                                  ATTIC  OF  MEMORIES

A small groove

Up below the roof top.

A roomful of dirt,

Without a window

Called ATTIC.

Underneath a piles of dirt,

There lies a priceless box,

full of memories.

Memories lost or assumed

to be tucked in a safe place.

I come across that box

my heart jumps gleefully by a beat.

Hands go limp and sweaty,

While I try to open

The door to long lost things.

Heart swells with pride ,happiness

along with thousand wordless feelings.

A smiles lits my face ,

A song plays on on my lips.

I grab a paper, pencil in reach,

Put  incoherent meaningless words

forming another invaluable memory

tucked safely in a box in THE ATTIC.