To you, From the attic

Surrounded by dust, creaky floor boards and junk is where I'll be. Come find me and then you'll see. The poems I write is for all to see, but a shy little person like me desires to be left unseen, so I'll keep my pages so neatly in check, for the future comes like a hurricane, that always leaves a shipwreck.

Tis but a book worth a thousand stories, made by the person in the attic.