When Shadows Aren’t Real
In the past, shadows seemed so real,
Real as colors on a shirt or a dress,
Images impregnated – to feel, real,
Nothing more than to end up with more, of, less.
The smell of grass is real, bird’s twerp – real,
Piano plays, real to the ear,
The warmth of a lover’s voice is ideal,
But these shadows – just disappear.
Like smoke through a chimney-stack,
Your image floats and disappears,
This vicarious route – ends – without feedback,
The eyes fail, the mind wonders, then dull ears.
What does all this mean? – from the start to now,
Once enthralled; now – not even a raise of the eyebrow.
© By James Booker March 30, 2016