Trained Attic (Includes the suggested revision edits from Del)

I felt a sharp pain
when I reached for the chain
that pulled down the ladder
that leads to the attic
of my mind.

I do not know
all that is stowed
in that poematorium
where my free verse
and strict forms repose.

Without a view,
but with sun shining through,
I can surely see
my words do not cast
a single shadow.

So, before my offspring
must sift through my things,
I'm removing my lines
from unseen storage
for scrutinized transport.

From garret to stations,
and unknown destinations,
I'm placing myself
not in a container,
but in the Cafe of a Poem Train.