I am incumbered in totality by a creeping sensation of memories crawling up my synapse like the shadows ascend the moon.
I am gathering wounds for my soul, as the nights flee.
It is like I am collecting stamps, and their all I can see.
Those and the phantoms, and memories so beastly.
Seeking a sanctum never found and an exalting plea.
Blue butterflies fill innocuous moments of sanctity.
Followed by blood driven reds permitted by a skeleton key.
Unlocking important moments of past with equivocal imagery.
The answer to learn that these memories do not have to act instrumentally.
Then hazes of gentle orange and yellow gloss the foyer gently.
The insurmountable memories are plentiful seemingly.
Yet I am floating on a euphoric moment like I had a bad fruit from an inauspicious tree
I wander through my memories, yet I am left feeling like a parolee.
Soundly and assuredly returning to the same scenery.
Wishing no one the same feelings not nobody.
Then I realise that the memories are stronger than my reality.
I must desist for though they were instrumental they need not continue instrumentally.