Shadows

A shadow follows each small step we take;

Each step-by-step, maintaining continuity

between moments it lingers with us, watching

us, as we are separated by gaps 

bridged by our shadows.

 

If your attention wavers, like a candle flame 

it flickers—but does not go out; 

nor do we ever cease, though our presence 

gutters in the world often, as before 

a sad wind; no,

 

the shadow does not leave us, there

is no escape. Only being, and nothingness.

 

The shadow is the nothingness that rests 

within the moments we fail to perceive,

but within which we are seen, and seen to be 

Just one more soul who cannot see himself. 

 

You hold two shadows, there, at least, 

when standing right before me: 

One I see, and one I cast, and both are you 

but both are also I, and none is free. 

 

And when I go, your shadow lingers still,

and watches you go back to dwell 

within yourself. And when you pass again 

into the light, it may seem to vanish; 

but it has only entered you, 

and now you are it, and it is for you,

for itself.

 

And so on and again, into the light, and back

you go—casting shadows and watching them 

concatenate, watching your identity form 

a linear progression, not seeing all the holes 

wherein there was nothing, where you were empty.

 

We are, like this, shadow-puppets

unable to see our true selves; 

unable to be together, to find meaning,

connection, truth. Only the whisper

of the film that’s piling slowly on the floor

beside that gently unspooling reel marks

the passing of our precious moments.

When it is done, you will cease to be,

to change, to move between one state

and another. You will be a dead thing

and a memory, unable then to ever catch

your shadow and confront it. 

 

Why are you so alienated from it?  

If you don’t believe you have such a shadow,

then you have not looked behind you

for the nothings and the deaths

of your past selves. They have left

their mark on you, and on others. 

 

But if you have seen it, then maybe you know—

it isn’t all yours. No, it has your mother’s eyes

and your father’s arms, your brother’s conceit

and your sister’s qualms, your unforgiven sins

spoken in so many other peoples’ voices,

on its own lips—it isn’t your shadow that follows you

step by step; no, no. You have watched

them watch you; it is the shadow of their grief,

of their love, of their disgust. 

 

So you see, you don’t really die, except that

you stop living. But your gaze still falls on those

you judged, your hands still touch, your voice still rings within

the hearts you moved—like they were discrete things

separate from you!—and once your last feeble stutters

coldly stop, only your shadow remains. 

 

It isn’t really you—merely a copy of an idea that you held

as steward, castellan of the fortress of shame

and regret, lord of Nothing. The ghost you will leave

is only the specter of your worries, as they were cast

upon others. Not all bad, perhaps—your shade

might be a friend, a lover. But it is not you,  

cannot be you, the thing that lives;

you are sense and sentiment, reflection

and anxiety. The shadow cannot take

steps. It has no attention to give. It watches

without seeing.  

 

If you can, look into its eyes—see that it has none.

But you have eyes, and so do I, and perhaps

we do not need to be slaves to our shadows

any more. If I can see you without watching you,

love you without changing you, feel you without

grasping you, then perhaps; perhaps despair

is in holding on, and salvation is in faith. 

I, for one, do not think there is a life

without darkness; nor seeing without

being seen. To be loved is to change,

and to die is to become immortalized

in sand. I think we must live with our

shadow-demons, learn to know them

and forgive the fear they cause.  

We are only human, after all.