Living in the shadows.
It is a life of hate, anger, disgust.
Watching them be better.
It is a life of rage, frustration and hurt.
Not being enough
A stake, to the soul
The perfect poison for your heart,
The perfect poison for your sanity.
Doing your life's best,
and not being enough,
Forever a dissapointment.
My life is black,
their praise are lies,
How dare they!
To my face, they say with a smirk, "that was amazing"...
they never do add the 'but'.
end of August
in the shadow of a tree
an old headstone
Early summer occurs
in a calamity of falling
young
petals, birds, the
bright souls of birds.
A small dead bird
is at my feet,
tree looms
over this soul-ossuary
dignifying the small
body with her dark needles,
bird-map-lost
Obliterate—
A small mourning
shadow passes over grass,
just long enough to hide the living bird,
Migration shadows
as I stand staring
from my window.
Around us people
talked on inanely;
we two fled,
seeking shadow.
Disappeared into his shadow.
The man without a shadow.
The shadow had a person.
Don't let your shadow find another person.
Escorting our shadows we take them
where they want to go.
Folding his shadow on his arm he went.
Sun spends the day
drawing me
in shadow-wash
revising
erasing
Lights attack you from all sides.
You split into multiple shadows
pale, weak versions
shadow adaptations.
Question: what is a silhouette, but an illusion
taken at a slow tempo. How palpable it feels
when time—an empty vessel—no longer fills itself.
You question that silhouette. You speak
at a slow tempo. You ask how urgently and gently are
synonyms. Their music is as familiar as
your own shadow. Ask: is there a word for this
slow tempo.
White sand beaches.
A shadow
erasing your footsteps
before I could remember
your passage.
A hand stretches forth
to pull me
from my exile.
Names fade into one another
without time to become new.
Limestone buildings
hold your shadow
while I pass
erasing your memory.
The shadow of a lonely willow
Swings
Ghastly, ghastly;
The roads are lost
In the hoary-haired mists of eve ;
A strange green light in the distance
Drifts
As a wandering fay ;
I hear a wild cry
In the dark air,
In the stream,
In the stars.
The sun I worship,
Not for the light, but for the shadows of the trees he draws :
O shadows welcome like an angel's bower,
Where I build Summer-day dreams !
Not for her love, but for the love's memory,
The woman I adore :
Love may die, but not the memory eternally green—
The well where I drink Spring ecstasy.
To a bird's song I listen,
Not for the voice, but for the silence following after the song :
O Silence fresh from the bosom of voice ! —
Melody from the Death-Land whither my face does ever turn!