Tuesday, 13 December 2011


Sometimes, through curtains in shadows we spy
an acre of earth, a sliver of sky.
Massless reflections of solids in space,
Bonded by light, facet and face.
A sort of a soul, attached yet apart,
Like Rick and his bar, a head and a heart.
And in purple shadows we often find truth,
Not readily seen in daylights bright booth.
For shadows are segments of limbo and love
tied to below, fashioned above.
Man miles of gray, sons of the moon,
Their mother a sun, vampire at noon.
And we dwell together like echo and sound,
Are bonded together when we meet underground.

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