Is there substance to
a shadow?
Does it weep, laugh or know?
Softly, so softly there seems to be,
A presence of something, free.
Briefly wafting through our room,
Quietly wandering here and there,
Occasionally, taking a chair.
How can this person of contrition,
Be almost like an apparition?
Wandering here and there,
Leaving the observer bare,
Of any way to heal the scar
That pushes this person so far.
All we can do is realize the sensitivities
While this shadow lives with inevitability's
