"Antiques in the Attic"

Below is one of the first "best" sonnets I've written, back when I was new to the art, and now I feel like this is a good time to put it out there. Reason being, down in Texas over Christmas break we did a lot of looking through old stuff, things that have sustained their sentimental value through four (or five depending on the person) city and state relocations.

It’s all in the kin. It’s all out of trust.

Sifting through old trinkets seems pragmatic.

If it’s out with the new, brush off the dust,

get in touch with antiques in the attic.

They’re under attack from blunders and raids.

I’m afraid the best won’t be left for last.

Sporadic accolades act out of aid

and addiction infected from the past blast.

Combine the mind’s confines with the priceless

treasures with measure only to find worth

and value in the small pleasures. I confess,

I’m blessed with this life, this time, this earth.

Something priceless is similar to dirt.

Life isn’t suffering but sure do hurt.

Word of the day:

- ostensible - def: apparent, seeming, professed