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Memories are only Ghosts

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Memories are only ghosts wearing bed sheets,
Pretending that they can still keep me warm,
But history pages aren’t enough to quilt into
The quality of lullaby fingertips that tuck me
Into the warmth of what is still tangible.
What then am I to do with the loose-end frills
Of bedside manners that once gave me a place
To rest my head on and just enough thread
To cover the coldest tips of my peaking toes
That tried to imprint every face, just before the
Curtain closed on the time limit for happiness;
Sleep had to come, and so I gave into the darkness
With a willing smile, because my realities turned
Into my memories, and my memories turned into
Dreams that replaced the dreams of a future where
I can relive my memories that have been turned
Into a circuit of forgetting that a future even exists.
What then of dreams, those that come to me when
The light still pleads for my attention that has
Already been lost to drawing the scenes of
Unfamiliar faces that erases my memories of
Feelings that have already fizzled and can no longer
Tingle the insides of whatever organ I might use
To think, dream, and remember faces and feelings with.
Memories have left me cold, dreams have yet to cash-in
Their promises of a hundred nights of perfect sleep,
So I will stick to what is tangible, grasp whatever I may,
And sew the details into the sleeping bag that encases me
Along the road, traveling from memories to dreams.



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