Attic Ghosts Poem by Teresa Dearing

There's ghosts in my attic,
At night they do prance,
The wind plays a ditty,
They all start to dance.

There's ghosts in my attic,
I hear them all day,
Hear moaning and groaning,
Even as they play.

There's ghosts in my attic,
From once swaying trees,
No longer are living,
But still speak to me.

There's ghosts in my attic,
All nailed, sawed, and then planned,
Secured, positioned,
But never quite tame.

There's ghosts in my attic,
Listen if you will,
Some of the tales they tell,
Give one quite a chill.

There's ghosts in my attic,
They speak of our deeds,
Happiness, sorrow,
Mans evil and greed.

Heed these ghosts in our attics,
Listen to them in your mind,
Their voises combine to 'wake',
The funeral of all mankind.