An older poem. it was started probably around 2oo9, but I've done so many rewrites on it that I'm not sure anymore. It's a favorite of mine. I think it says a lot about . . . well, all my poetry is about me. ALL poetry is either directly or indirectly about the person who wrote it, isn't it? Anyway, let me know what you think.
My Shadow
across the cracks and gorges that sidewalks create,
the crooked roots of oak and elm scarring its flesh.
And cats! My God, the bloody cats! Scratching at
its dirty feet each time we’d pass them on the street.
or bleed from its eyeless face; never once did he
scream out in pain though surly he felt something.
Quite rare indeed to crawl along on hand and knee
through all the years without once feeling something.
I’m quite sure he’ll not utter a word,
not one single word of regret.
Woodie-28-11(rewrites o8-o3-14)
My Shadow
My shadow’s grown quite pale, anemic
if you will.
All those years dragged along the
Earth,across the cracks and gorges that sidewalks create,
the crooked roots of oak and elm scarring its flesh.
And cats! My God, the bloody cats! Scratching at
its dirty feet each time we’d pass them on the street.
Most bitter, yes, quite bitter should
my shadow be.
And yet, it never sighs, not one
tear does it ever cry,or bleed from its eyeless face; never once did he
scream out in pain though surly he felt something.
Quite rare indeed to crawl along on hand and knee
through all the years without once feeling something.
A very honorable shadow, I must say.
And as I watch him slowly fade away,I’m quite sure he’ll not utter a word,
not one single word of regret.
Woodie-28-11(rewrites o8-o3-14)
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