Shadows

There are shadows,
moving in the confluence of light and dark,
black ghosts,
unidentifiable,
friend, or perhaps foe,
more likely neither,
leaving you
unseen,
lacking color,
fumbling in the night
for a candle,
a light,
anything
to make sense of the shadows.

About this poem

This picture was taken at a trade show in Amsterdam, on my cell phone, a year and a half ago. I just stumbled on it again, and it sent me thinking about all the things we don’t know, people we don’t know, and at times, parts of ourselves we don’t know. Shadows.

Tom