Boxes filled with junk.
That’s all people see.
They rummage through old papers,
Not knowing their worth.
Old photographs of strangers,
Their happy-looking smiles.
Hope in their eyes.
A look into who they were.
Not knowing the connection
Of the people represented,
And the belongings left behind.
Collecting dust and cobwebs.
Once in their prime,
taken care of,
Treasured.
Overburdened,
With memories
That had become lost.
Hopelessly forgotten.
Only a glimmer,
Of what was in the past.
Emotional attachment,
No longer a factor.
Just a pile of junk.
What is the worth?
Empty objects,
Left behind.
Nothing more than
Ghosts.
Ghosts in the attic.