In the minds of each person,
Pauper or prince,
There is an attic door,
Usually hidden,
Barred by clutter and cobwebs,
An oubliette in mental style,

What does it contain?
Who can know?
The answer is myriad,

For one it may contain a void of black,
Your fear in billow form,
This loft could hold monsters of all moulds,
Slashers and dragons and sphinxes,
Perhaps an imprisoned and decrepit facsimile of oneself,
Moaning out in your voice,

Why does it exist?
Does this attic incarcerate evil?
Or does it merely hide a part of ourselves?


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