Hammock in The Attic

Let me sway.
Flight feature:
as gravity releases
a gentle tug.
Among rafters and beams
my slumber swing
flew in a tiny attic
graced with steamer trunks
and bad paintings of fishermen
who seemed to stare
as darkness began to fall.
At this moment
everything in the world
slipped away.
Winds outside were
felt right above my head,
as the train less than a mile away
drummed onward
sounding like a rising rollercoaster.
Don't let me fall,
as the waves of tension
to be visited
felt like
heretics and holy men
behind a tightly shut door.
In the state I'm in
falling from grace
took only the slightest push.
I wisely sigh,
try to smile,
and grab a rafter.
Shove off the rooftop-
two boards thick.
The vibration of rain
tapped slowly above my head.
The hammock in the attic:
my grungy romantic seance
of this bohemian thought to be dead,
in the attic:
a bit slanted
and obtrusively incoherent
even when all of the houses on this street were built the same.
One holds a playwright,
one has only junk,
but this one has someone looking for home.