In Attic Dust

In attic dust they stand in rows,

Small sentries forged in silent pose,

With paint chipped coats and stoic eyes,

Still loyal through the years gone by.

Their muskets fixed, their helmets bright,

They once knew charge and brave, bold fight,

Across the floor they marched in file,

Commanded by a child’s bright smile.

No voice they gave, no wound they cried,

They stood where other dreams had died,

While battles raged in candlelight,

And truce was called with sleep each night.

Now dust has dulled their gallant hues,

Their stories locked in quiet pews,

But still they wait with heads held high—

A frozen army, never shy.

So let them stand, those leaden men,

Their wars are won, again, again—

And in their stillness, we recall

The joy of youth, the rise, the fall.