Juggles of Times

The water I see seems to be a mirage. Facts and fancies, like chameleons, camouflage. Abysses seem shallow when they are measured. Within wombs of tombs, riches are treasured. Sketches that look like walls, in truth, are poles. Hurdles hold their heads high to wreck the goals. Beasts that dine on guavas aren't crows but bats. I cut short my tours, confronting black cats. Peeping through the holes of towers, I faint. With colours of likes and dislikes, I paint. Shouldn't I reach the top? Should I go back? With loads of despair, my corridors crack.