The Play of Shadows (Calling)

Poetry

Photo by Martino Pietropoli on Unsplash

I’ve never understood
how you can’t see
the whirl and ebb
of this mastery,
the play of shadows
on the wall
(calling, calling, to us all,)
and the pattern played by
every heart
that beats these streets
and walks this path

For you have not stood
in the blanket-night
and smiled at the howls
of the beasts that cry
at this sick and cruel reality
(calling, calling, through these beats,)
and danced to the sweet
music they make,
pain given form in
vocal fry
and screaming
guitars…

making something physical
in the space between —
a doorway
that was
never meant to be
and that you can see
in the space between
the chords
in the dark-blanket
cliff-edge
night