(I know I made that word up)
You walk through a door that’s plagued your psyche.
The people who would have scorned you before
only see you in their peripheral, paying no attention.
There is a storm waging outside. The air has come to life.
There are shadows on the walls, from the wind.
Is a shadow real,
or just our perception of what’s supposed to be there?
You ponder all of life’s mysteries.
You sit, in chaos, all night.
Voices and thunder effect you the same.
The sights are monstrous and ugly,
the bones and death and dilated pupils.
When the shadows recede
the sun comes up in the morning, it is quieted.
The trees, that made the shadows that terrorized you,
in this morning light look majestic.
Their roots dig deep they reach into the sunrise.
You get up, you walk down the middle of the sunny boulevard
and remember those shadows forever
as a new perspective settles in.
Artist Forrest Sargent