Shadow’s Art

I carry the shadow from one room to the next

in this quiet and empty space.

Much like him, I understand frailty.

Yet, fluidly he travels alongside me,

But

all so silently he moves.

Like a sinister python gliding through Amazonian branches.

There is no passion in his stride,

No force guiding him to a destination.

It is simply to go from A to B, with no force of hand.

We know each other well.

He patiently waits for me to run off from the canvas

and pour into the real world.

I am the Lisa he has divulged,

The pearl he has polished,

The suns that he has brightened.

He made me his craft,

A fine picture.

He has chosen where to hang me in his study,

Above the fireplace, he said,

Near fifty others.

He likes to call them his treasures,

But we all know,

We’re simply

his victims.