Memories

The attic, 

The dusty, grimy junkyard,

Yet the abode of memories,

Chuckling with youth and secrets.

The choking dust makes us grimace,

Is it really that inglorious?

It may be grotty, but proudly sits there

 Rebuking the long-forgotten years.

An untouched bulky box it was

Opening it made me cough,

But what it disclosed

Challenged the worth of gold.

My childhood love, the memoric diaries,

My childhood obsession, the crinkly novels,

My childhood passion, the scattered crayons,

My whole childhood lay in that visually displeasing box.

That’s it, you say?

Yeah, only these moments residing in my heart,

Just the days are forever gone,

Only the useless but cherishable ‘junk’.