empty trays

This week's poem, as always, with a touch of Aphantasia. (Plus a bonus haiku.)

perhaps memories themselves
grow transparent    faded through
so when butlers come
to pluck them from narrow shelves  
they return with cool, empty trays

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Hugin and Munin
are now not “on speaking terms”
I wander to and fro

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Thank you for reading. Here’s another poem.

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My initial post has more about Aphantasia. Have a look, and the poems might make a different kind of sense.

Glimpses at the Dark

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Please share this with any aphants you might have in your life. I am highly curious to know if any of this resonates with others whose mind’s eyes are dark.

—Alex

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Glimpses at the Dark can be delivered every week.