Memories: a sojourn

You're not a figment of my imagination,
nor the stuff made of dreams.
When the escapades of life come to a solemn standstill,
or in restive times -
times that seem to clutter in deep,
shreds of the bygone moments often elusively peek
into the undulating crevices,
of the frescoes of time.

And then, I yearn, often ache, to delve
into the radiant realms
on your ever-growing territory,
seek solace from the scathing scruples of reality -
slog through the fog,
shrouding your misty entrance.

But alas,
all I get is a palate of colors - the dark and the bright.
The sentient mind pervades deep into it,
scouring for the sake of reminiscence.
The celluloid offers in a sneak
to a myriad host of moments,
unravels beings who once walked the path -
this very path -
some who never cared,
some who hated to the annals of hate,
some who loved an ethereal love -
same, yet different without them.

I extend my arms to touch, feel and take in
this very oblivious and apparent surrealism -
but alas, curse the cruel dictates of time.
Still, the window of the longing mind opens,
threatens to transcend the barriers of space and time -
fills in the senses with your rendering essence.
And when, the dictates of time seep in,
reducing my access to mere symbolism,
all I get from you
is a baffling assemblage of lights, sound, and blurry imagery -
envisioning a well of depth - the depth of life.
Memories --
you're all I shall ever have
to take on my way back,
defying time through your colored glass.