An image flashes by, much like a bird,
swift on its wings, rising and fluttering,
the moth drawn to the flame, the butterfly
dancing freely across the sky, alive
and joyful - but still an image only.
It is a shadow, a ghost, a phantom -
similar, yes, in outline, in broad strokes,
but wholly incomplete in fine details,
where the devil lies (for he cannot true),
where the substance substantiates the rest.
This is all anyone ever has, just
a wisp of our essence, spread thin over
some loose framework, greyed out in the middle,
filled by memory, imagination,
and the lies they like to tell themselves.
No comments:
Post a Comment