Merciless mornings

Mornings tend to tread gently into my room, filtering slowly through an armory of tinted windows and thick curtains. 

Mornings tread gently into my room and brutally swallow any remains of the day past. 

They scrape away at dreams I try to remember, peel off the important glaze from last nights notifications, and try to erase old memories with a bloodthirsty vengeance. 

So callous are these mornings when it comes to soothing wounds, that they chafe it raw, to the point they bleed. A couple sores of oozing salt water. 

Mornings may be a handy tool to erase dreams, but they often skimp on the nightmares. 

Now I've a collection of tattered nightmares to draw a fractured collage of delusions, and the best part about delusions is that they can masquerade as dreams, even during day time.