Of things unwritten;
how long will it take
to surface and stain?
To the shadow on the wall
cast in gray
you are not the mug
nor the light
nor the white wall,
so sure of its irregular dimples
but a question
in too little color,
a thought unrecognized
impermeable and flat,
a quizzical glance to dust;
what hides in your shape?
nothing so deep as your color
something so flexed in symbolism
the meaning asks itself
to whom do I belong?
Dear shadow;
this is not to say you are worthless
or you are weak or purposeless
since my hand shadows this page
and as long as there is light
you may exist as well
but you are manipulated into form
again and again
in a dimension less than mine
this is what
I see.
