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Written While In The Attic MAG
The old mansion sits majestically on that hill
Looking from the road you see it there, perfect and still.
But on the inside it is different. The battered inside says
That lately this house is sad. Yes, it has seen better days.
The wallpaper that once was dazzling
Is now peeling, fading, frazzling.
The chipping paint is so old it's based with lead, not oil.
The once beautiful dwelling is now in turmoil.
The attic is filled with useless junk stored in numerous trunks.
It all at once meant something to someone kind
Whose face you will only find
In albums. Her death occurred so long ago.
I never met her but I think I know
The life she lead and what happened way back
When she was setting our family on the track;
And how history repeats itself no matter how cruel.
I feel my eyes are moist and I think myself a fool
And I descend from the attic on rickety stairs,
Closing the door behind me on history's lair,
Then wander out finally to the sun's welcoming rays,
To ponder the house's better days.
And I look at the house, and it looks vain,
Trying to hide the inner pain.
And now I will stop and leave you believing
No matter how smart you are, looks are deceiving.