Attic Necropolis          

A single bulb stands sentry over…

Motes of dust laying indolent,

their days of dancing now in the past.

Toxic air of yesteryears’ mistakes

haze over an unopened window with guilt’s regret.

In a dark corner,

Buddha’s picture hangs askew

above a retired brass bed of youth,

watching over the cracked hour glass

that has ceased being turned.