As one sits, contemplates all of life’s shadows.
All their myriad shades of life lived on the edges.
A long and winding road, sometimes treacherous
it has been, as one comes to an end, envisioning.
Does one see their shadows in shades of gray
buried within the corridors of their subconscious.
Do their shadows dissipate with the light of day.
or live on in the darkness of their troubled nights.
Freedom from ones shadows come on the wings of insight
Denial, repression, anger, blame clip the wings, no flight
from the weight, the baggage one carries on their back.
Because of, friends, acquaintances, partners spirits crack,
souls split, the universe shifts and you are hung on a rack.
A funeral pyre will be your fate, ashes placed in a stack
until the winds of time blow them away, your voice silent
for evermore as the daemons nevermore dictate your journey.
B. J. “ A ” 2
February 25th 2018
Copyright © William J. Jr. Atfield | Year Posted 2018
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