Angele Toomey Poetry

So it’s almost 2am local time and my brain is defiantly kicking around ideas. It started with me thinking about climbing attic stairs as a way to step back in time, and then rest of it just flowed to point that it seemed like a good idea to write it out so that I wouldn’t lose it by morning.

The last diary
There is a ladder to my attic.
The climb up 
takes me back in time
to dwell once more
amongst the forgotten remnants of what was,
and what could never be.
I find a shoe box full of the
static shells of people 
staring at me from polaroids,
their false smiles more faded 
than the last time.
I move on, in search of what I 
am really looking for.
It holds papers from last century
and an old diary.
I want to see again what she saw,
and hear her voice inside my head,
speaking to me in the way that only she knows.
She is a twin sister to me now:
connected but also her own entity.
I have told her stories 
but I need to hear her tell 
me again.
I want to know if she saw the world the
way I see it now.
Did she notice the connections and signs
that may have foretold the future?
Or was she as blind as I am now?
Amongst all the forgotten artefacts
and dust
I cannot find her.
Somehow the last known recordings 
in her own hand
have dissipated
into the mists of time
like the echoes of lost love.
I descend the ladder
back into current time
and the mourn
the person I used to be.