Upon the attic there is a shrine nobody enters,
A lamp there guards the deity and the spirits.
Cobwebs of time, stardust of antique dignity,
There is a bond that dwells in silent affection.
Words and hymns can mar its pacific sanctity,
Padlocked and sealed it holds the cryptic reigns.
Fountainhead of that was created and will ever be,
Hovering around the thick carved rosewood doors,
Inlaid with bronze figurines and ancient chronicles.
It creaks and warns as, I push away the reticence,
Of all the truth that may tumble upon the vulnerable.
Some doors and boxes are best left unopened,
Sanctum sanctorum of what mortals believe in.
A veil to protect from the light, that will conjure and blind,
Not all the eyes are made for the absolute truth,
Not all the minds can adore the most intangible.
Let it be there on the attic, like an abstract painting,
Its mystery is allurement, trying to comprehend,
Will make an evolution of its own, enough for one life.
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