a symptom of a psychological crisis

There were broken nails
in the wrists of the attic;
hat-less hat boxes.
A dollhouse without dolls,
and ghosts
playing black & white movies
on a television
that no longer speaks.
Piles of newspapers
made mansions for spiders
and their wars lay empty shells
thrown in a pattern
I’d interrupted.
I tiptoed through the shadows
of broken sunbeams and found
the misplaced photos;
not my own, someone else’s.
Perhaps somewhere
on the other side of my mind
there is a basement
full of my childhood
and some other saviour
is creeping through it:
perplexed by the collected waste
that once seemed so important-
enough to be saved for redemption.

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