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Dancing Shadows

Shadows

Whisper

Songs of the future,

From somewhere further than the future.

Somewhere.

Elsewhere.


These shadows

Dance

On the walls of my bedroom,

Performing a perfect ballet of anxiety.

With movements expressing an infinite way to move,

I am . . .


Gripped.


But, like the sun,

One cannot stare at the shadows for too long,

Or else.

Or else . . .

I close my eyes,

But, I can still hear their songs

In the faintest whisper beyond the wind.

I try not to invite them in,

But they beg me

To live again.


I am . . .


Conflicted.


I pull out my ear buds

And play some piano from my phone.


“I do not wish to be a piano key.”

The shadows whisper to me.

The words of

Dostesky

Are something like that.

These shadows are well-read.

These shadows want inside my head.

Please excuse

The darker tone,

I stared for too long,

And now I live alone.


Sleep?


Sure, sometimes.

Usually when the tides in my mind

Have crashed against the shores

An infinite amount of times.

Then,

Then the shadows disappear,

And I cannot hear

Their whispering songs of fear.



-C.H.

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