There are some questions that linger in seeming perpetual shadow, no matter how much we try and determine their answers. (Image by aaron)
Foreshadowing’s Penumbra by Odin Roark In his darkened room, The tick tock of scissors Clipping flowers in waiting, The voices chiming distant, Even with his ear pressed tightly Against the wall. The florist and her customer Prattle endlessly of grand kids Of church sermons choked with tears Black cars and dark veiled mourners. Then… Had they wandered off, Further into the future, Or merely hiding in the walls, Crouched in darkly recess, Deeper in his head. “Patience, anxious one,” Someone replies gleefully, Her identity and origin His nightly unresolved mystery. Was he not ready? Could time be stubbornly refusing him judgment, Rendering instead another mistrial As tomorrow’s sunrise breaks the darkness, Setting up another day of foreshadowing’s penumbra.
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