4 November 2012
Whispering shadows approach the scene, Serene they haunt the aching mind.
A coldness, and the shuffle and the shuffling Of subtle, silent blackness.
They grip the cold hard ground. They touch the hard cold earth. Hold fast. Held fast.
They stand there, moving.
Yet there is no such thing as a plague of shadows (Only those that are shadows of men).
So pass the light and grip the wonder, Unchain the night and free the pain.
. . . and I?
I will sit and touch that immortal doctrine That is reality.
Shadows • Opuss № I