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.