And every page lies crumpled in my temple,
my temple where the bed lies untouched,
the study perturbed with scrolls and parchment,
the long dead battery of the clock,
that puts up a show of a Tik Tok,
that only my mind can imagine,
and my temple reflect.
Each of those pages,
proud with their forced wrinkles,
seem to stand bold for every scribble,
that my ink ruled out over and over again.
My words seem to rebel in ferocity,
to my feeble attempt to demolish a past,
a past that had every right of a memory.
A memory to be remembered,
a memory that claimed to deserve nostalgia.
The silent photographs,
of all those thoughts,
of all those moments,
of all those faces,
seemed to be intoxicated with the rum of time,
and the gin of future.
And as they hiccup,
to the night's glory..
I hear all the laughter, the joy, the cries,
seeping out of the careful crevices of a woven dream,
from a silent vibrant mind,
singing along to the toast's cheer.
And as I look around,
to all those honest memoirs of the mind,
I, for once, restrain to push away,
the past that dances along an attractive tale,
a tale I know too well,
a tale I know by heart..
I, for once, let them go on..
and see for real, what an imaginary truly is,
while I enjoy the drink of my paradox,
for drunken memories don't lie...