Thoughts and memories,
line lofty, laddered shelves,
in the library of my mind.
Nostalgia bound reveries,
flamboyantly hide themselves,
in the hopes I try to find.

When turning pages,
of dusty, thickened books,
I sometimes quickly shut,
it has taken many ages,
to steady hands that shook,
from deep and nasty papercuts.

There is a restricted section,
lurking, darkly in the corner,
that I am too scared to go,
in my mind’s eye’s reflection,
the mirrored contents torture,
I daren’t reveal what’s unshown.

So I stick with the unrestricted,
by ever-glowing, lamp-ish lights,
and try to list the lucky texts,
I want the lurking dark; evicted,
to move out hindsight,
but I know that’s just a foolish jest.

I hope to read a winning mantra,
that makes me brave enough to grow,
to a fresh museum from library of old.
To cut the nose off ‘great’ Alexander,
climb Kilimanjaro’s peak of snow,
and scathe the Berserkers foretold.

But until the day I speak candor,
when darkly, lurking books do glow,
I’ll keep my stories on shelves untold.
When I’m a fire-resistant salamander,
when my thoughts are aluminium tableaux,
that’s when burning writ will be on the wall,
and,
my ashen past, in flames, will, call,
simply, to unfold;
a rekindled present, scrolled;
a revived parchment, quenched;
a resurrect, disenthralled escrow.

© poormansdreams