Silhouettes

Silhouettes                 October 31, 2012

Creeping shadows grace me with their presence 

And shower me with dark affection

Such as I never seem to be able to escape

Their consummate grip on my reality.

I gloat at the very thought that, yes,

This world is caught in the cross hairs

Of its own reality of not being able to

Separate itself from what is real and what is fantasy.

I stare in at the walls, and they cave in on me,

Growing in their shadows, cloaking all they meet,

And yet, the sunshine strikes that wall,

And I see my head, yet that shadow does not see me.

The sun is the ultimate artist,

Armed with dust as its paint brush

And the electromagnetic spectrum as its palette. 

The colors, though, are such

That this painting in which I describe to you

Is mainly clad in two shades: black and cream.

Because of the sun, my every action is imprinted

Along the walls and grounds of the world.

We, as sentient beings, will never escape

The warm grasp of silhouettes.

They are, after all, what identify us.