People gathered in the courtyard
In their usual bouts of revelry.
Unaware of the one they all discard,
Shooting glances trite with brevity…
And out of this planted seed it grew,
A tendency to do as shadows do….
Hidden from the obtuse eye
In the dark to all of his peers.
Latent, in muse, off to the side,
They don’t feel the stinging tears…
And like a balloon inflates it grew,
A tendency to do as shadows do…
His words tethering in the wind
Like cotton spores in seasons bloom.
Reclusive by all, his natures pinned,
Cast aside left only to loom…
And like dark clouds in a storm it grew,
A tendency to do as shadows do…
He shouldn't have to go it alone,
But there’s no one to whom he can turn.
Time and again, for innately he’s prone,
The bereft ashes of a forgotten urn…
And like a plume of smoke it grew,
A tendency to do as shadows do…
The growth of this malevolent blight
Left him bitter but not in spite.
Abandoned, like a shadow—lost to the night,
He hadn’t a choice but to sit and to write…
And as darkness after sunset it grew,
A tendency to do as shadows do…
