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Poem
Have you ever pondered
shadows are made of 
softness, they are not 
hard surfaced like 
those of us existing 
outside of the white noise

unable to grasp -

the invisible, 
that speak meaning to us, 
whispering their sagacious platitudes,
we see them briefly, then, 
they disappear into the cracks 
in the walls of us,

we are blind -

to the shadows that stand
and walk beside us,
they make us jump, 
so we avoid looking
too closely, 
at those penumbras

we shut our windows,
we roll down the venetians,
those masks we wear daily - 
no one is an open book,
we are the bookmarks,
in our own recycling stories,
 
dog-eared each chapter -

returning occasionally
to understand what 
long sentences mean
in the shorter less than 
poetic moments 
of our purpose

intelligence scattered -

running from the hell hounds
those shadows we never 
successfully collar and lead,
they find us eventually 
and lick at our feet,
praying for us to take them in,

to love them, to tame them,
but they are wild things, living,
all in their own dimensions;
the shadows that walk beside us,
the ones we hardly ever notice, 
feed those baying Baskervilles light

to satiate, and to calm them, 
we try to love them,
those hell hounds - 
eventually they possess us,
for a while, their hunger strays
to other things

we ride the wild 
like we are them, 
they eventually turn on us
and take us by the throat, then,
we, unable to speak, resort
to writing poetry 

they rip our hearts out
greedily, the blood leaves 
a trail - and we look, 
for the shadows again,
to bring us light, still,
something of the hounds remain

you can see it 
in the eyes, 
something wild
romping in the mind, 
pulsing bright light
like a neon sign 
advising, 

"avoid at all costs, 
The Uncontained"

avoiding at all costs,
for it is far far too expensive
to entertain the loss of time
in such darkness, 
the ripening fear in others
steers them mercilessly,

they turn their backs
and walk away,
from all 
that singular madness,
"no! never that!", they think, 
that is never them;

that one, singing
beautiful unlearn’ed tunes 
to mirrors in the darkness, 
dances with ghosts 
who remember 
the brush strokes of a life,

listening to other channels -

who gift 
strange meaning
embedded automatically
between the magik 
refrains of music
of the forgotten 

the phantom heartbeat -

that one 
is with the Baskervilles
running wild and free 
barking with shadows 
loving the luscious life licking
the uncontained within





Candide Diderot. ‘24
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