Salti al enhavo


Walking the Shadows

Cover image containing an illustration of a person wearing a backpack walking down a shadowy alley at night
Image from Adobe Stock

I see the shadows move around the bend.
Without an origin, they lack a destined fate.
I follow the street where pools of light meet
With depths of virginal darkness, late at night.
Inky blackness makes the forms
Shaped from gradients of Void-substance.
Nothing self-negates by making Being.
Creatures coalesce and scramble in periphery.

They swarm in the shadows and cover me.
Further along the dark-way.
Repeating patterns of motion lead me silently.
Unacknowledged, untouched, but surrounded by companions -- I am.

A millennium elapses as the creatures impatiently squirm.
The night is old, as old as heathen folklore.
Discreetly the street has disappeared, drowned by abyss.
By darkness incarnate, creeping dogs and wyrms.
Time itself is motionless, however.
Night neither awaits nor consults it.
Anxious for nothing, the shadows sigh.
Communication builds into a wall, and I hear:


I look above the void at the voice's compulsion.
There stands the Monument, crowning the hill.
Avenues of dark retreat, heavier than
Surrounding light. I walk the line.

Shadowlings diversify. They change but do not leave.
Glancing below, I see darkness lingering,
Knowing its hidden potential is wasted.
Each footstep sinks forward.
I come to the intersection of darkness and light.
They cannot unite for love or war, except
For the places where my footsteps have stirred them together.
I sit at the bank and dangle my feet, while I watch.