nothing here but shadows

the time is gone, is woven

into fabric, laced

into faces

that smile upon the glistening reflections

of shadows, rolling along, along,

to other places;

are our lives important?

are we, too, among the living dead?

or are we merely traces

of lasts night's dream,

of tomorrow and tomorrow's midnight bed

the tears we shed,

elixers, too, of skies smeared, blackened

with those glassy reflections,

obsidian, cracked, and shattered and

strewn

onto our perceptions,

we call it night;

they call it day.

"hooray, hooray!" celebrate while you're young

run around; innocence weaves silken string we've all strung

about our necks into patterns, into notes that we've sung

to ourselves and to others,

to all those that would listen

i thank you, sincerely,

and hope that you're quite smitten.