Even though I cast a shadow and create an echo in the hills
I know I am no longer real, just dust on old window sills.
It is my ashes scattered hither and yon, near but far
leaving just a memory and a long and jagged scar.
So sad to no longer be, empty but full of movement
like a piece of glass, shimmering but yet bent.
Where am I, the sky seems dark above me all the time,
even my dreams no longer exist unless they are in rhyme.
If I am not here then why do I struggle to sleep?
why too does the music that I hear make me weep?
Am I really just a bitter shadow, left from past days
will I have a lasting legacy made in other ways?
A shadow cannot know these things or imagine any dream
things for us who are scattered will never be as they seem.