I’m not going to say anything

that my eyes haven’t already said

There is a reason I write poetry

because a thousand words spoken

in halting, broken, slurred tongues

haven’t been enough to get across

this sense of living at the edge

with hands pressed against the void

sometimes turning back

to make believe the feeling of you

isn’t playing with shadows

but you cast such interesting shadows

bare tree branches in yellow streetlight glow

moving bodies lit by candles close to burning out

the earth cast black against the moon

lanterns in the trees on solstice night

What is it if I walk among them

aching like the sky above

hollow, distant thunder rolling

with nothing to mark my passing

but the scent of rain

and ghosts waiting to watch it fall?

Photo by Maria Ionova on Unsplash

9 responses to “Shadows”

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