the hot white light moved into position;
the aurora borealis traced each leaf,
spawning a shadow that sprung to life,
laughing, defiantly at its soon to be short life,
it silently, tightly, embraced the door;
once fire engine red,
now a grey, lifeless shell;
unable to make a sound;
the paint could feel its own age,
but the shadow fooled the painter again,
he thought grey was red;
so he poured himself another drink
and called it a day

a cloud drifted into the picture,
a jealous rage coloring its cheeks;
its shadow, merciless,
a whale swallowing an entire neighborhood;
but no more than our fears for tomorrow,
casting itself all about inside your mind,
choking your heart of all desire;
because you can’t imagine love inside a storm,
waiting and living with doubt and uncertainty;
not knowing what to expect,
but you must stop thinking like that;
there is no point to worry;
because that is not nature’s way