Crevasses

There is something about memories 
That never lets me trust them 
Maybe because they appear 
When I have nothing more to think
Or perhaps because I can think of nothing more
The paradox is a juxtaposition 
Memories, like dust on a photograph, fading,
Reminiscent of a forgotten spider’s web
In the cold corner of a locked room
At the end of an abandoned hallway
Of a castle in ruin
And if I were to drop a stone
In the crevasses of my mind
The sound would be of memories 
Coming back to life
O Forgetful me
Remember the sea
That which goes silent
When the sun goes down

But Dreams!
Those nocturnal delights
Full of sins and sensibilities 
Like a ballerina en pointe on a needle
A sylph threaded 
And wedded to life’s leftover canvas 
To stitch and make whole 
Pieces of prosaic poetry 
Oh, the dreams are my delicacies 
With daydreaming being my favourite 
The flavour; incurably sweet yet alarmingly bitter
As I teeter  
Between death and sleep
Between Morpheus and Orpheus 
Between soliloquies and singing 
For a drifting island of my own
Where waves are stories grown
And I sail all alone
Towards horizons  
Etched in stone

But reality is like rust
Over time it chips away
Parts of you; to take you apart,
And away from your Cinderella story,
Reality, that monster which appears 
When fairy tales of everyone coalesce 
And things that made sense 
Becomes white-noise in your ears
The blinding buzz
At once a siren and a lullaby 
So that you sleepwalk
Out into the ocean of possibilities 
To first drown and then float
Before a man and now a boat,
To get boarded on and sailed
Just another oyster that failed
In understanding the pearls of wisdom;
That not all ports get hailed