The Whispering Attic

Cobwebs cling to memories, whisper in the gloom, Once vibrant threads of knowledge, shrouded in a tomb. Skills like dusty treasures, hidden from the light, Yearning for a touch, a chance to take flight. A sculptor's hand, with practiced, steady grace, Carved dreams in marble, a masterpiece in place. Lines flowed with precision, a language understood, Each chip is a testament to passion's fortitude. Now, brittle fingers tremble, the chisel feels so strange, Muscles long unused, a memory's fading range. Regret, a serpent's hiss in the attic's hold, "What ifs" that echo, stories yet untold. Across the hall, a dancer's form takes flight, A whirlwind of delight, a radiant, joyous sight. Years etched in grace, a sculptor of her own, Each movement speaks of dedication sown. Heed the whispers, darling, before the embers fade, Rekindle passion's flame, the skills you once displayed. The mind, a fertile ground, thrives with constant care, And dormant talents blossom when you dare. Let not the attic's silence claim the vibrant you, Embrace the journey's call, the lessons ever new. For the human spirit soars on wings of practiced might, And every challenge faced, a beacon burning bright.