Old, Musty Rocking Chair

As I walked up to the attic, the rigid stairs made a creak.
Cobwebs in the corner, and the air quite bleak.

Squinting through the mist of dark, I can hardly see.
Stacks of boxes lay across the floor, as well as old debris.

As I look over the room, a certain corner is brought to my attention.
An old, musty, rocking chair that my grandfather use to mention.

Although layered with particles of dust, a certain magnificence gives it a glow.
Perhaps its the wood finishing or the painting above it by Vincent Van Gogh.

Remembering back to the stories that he has told, about when he was little
and when he was old.

I realize that it has been awhile since it has seen a visitor as I touch the arm of the antique chair. Swiping the dust onto the ground, as I take a seat there.

Rocking back and forth as one has done before,
listening to its hum as it once had been adored.

I look at the one light on the attic ceiling, just as I stare.
Knowing that I'm in the same place my grandpa was once rocking in his old, musty, rocking chair.