Threshold of Surrealism and Realism

I abide by the lonely confines of the only home I ever knew
That’s only filled with the frigid memories I ever knew,
And ricocheting off the cold, cement walls was a long-ago dream,
In a cellar where rays of daylight never beam.
And awakening aromas of pale-violet lilacs outside my ajared cellar window.

Alongside a ruined childhood were those shielding dreams,
Peering out those dirty cellar windows to a world where nothing is what it seems,
Save those pale tones of the lilac
Of a new world I could never claim I wanted back;
My footpath to the door reached the threshold between surrealism and realism.

I dwelled with eccentricity and a weary heart
In that cursed childhood where things fell apart.
On that well-trodden, poetically-stained footpath,
That adds no dreariness to this memory’s past;
Sunrise came; illumining that cellar window.

The ghosts of the past tap my shoulder to scream
Only for me to hush them and say it was my dream!
And I hear them beg for me to cry
With many stings they shall try,
But I say back to them; it was my time through the threshold to fly!

Quite the contrary, realism is a distant, flickering star,
I know not what the senses of reality are.
Some will share this glimmer sky with me;
And to them, fortunate enough to see
A surrealist star-blanketed day-sky.

We are the realist folk with subconscious minds
And with our poetic vernacular, a dream glides.
With our pen as wings and mouths that sing
And yet, the realist world looks at all our dreams as a thing!
Regimented we are; militias marching to the poetic tune.