Shadow
Shadow clings to me;
I, to the Light.
No angle to the sun
Will rid me of Shadow.
Shadow is tallest
At highest Light,
And dimmest
At highest Night.
Freedom from Shadow
Is an illusion.
She is always over my shoulder and
Hard to slap
When she constantly rebukes me
Into my tormented ears.
Evasive yet underfoot,
Like old gum
Stuck to my shoes
being dragged
Through mud and straw.
Even at night,
Shadow grips onto me.
My specter in lamp light,
How she looms across a wall
Watching me read,
And how she enfolds me as I sleep
With her cold arms.
Sleek, silky Sorceress,
No face,
Only form;
She is the outline of
The dark side of my soul,
The color of abyss,
The size of void.
Her breath reeks of
Cosmic dust.
She is my pesky hag,
My tyrant,
My saboteur,
My martyr,
My critic,
My blackmailer.
My constant companion
And biographer,
She has written the novels of all my lives,
The Akashic Scholar assigned to me at birth.
My secrets rest with Shadow;
She knows all my doubts, fears, trespasses, sins.
Shadow holds the causes
Of my discords and dis-ease.
My contender, she greedily obscures
That which I must discover,
My authentic selves
In all my lives.
If I uncover my truth,
She will lose me forever,
And she cannot bear to be alone.
Shadow has no shadow
To bear.
Still, she must give up my secrets
If I persist.
Though she is a wounded healer,
Shadow will never heal
Unless I do,
Unless I listen and turn to the Light
In such a way
That Shadow is standing
Next to me,
Not behind me,
My Sacred Sister,
Holding my hand.
My dear Shadow,
You can never abandon me,
Nor I you.
©2018 Barbara Harris Leonhard @extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog
Image: pixabay.com
