Shadow Theatre
I thought I saw a fly; it was the shadow of a fly
That flitted past a window full of sun
A Doppelgänger buzzing through the corner of my eye
A zero, if the fly should stand for one
Or if the fly was Word, a fiendish pun.
I thought I knew you well; it was your shadow that I knew
You dawdled for a while before the glow
My passion kindled in the night, and, blocking it from view
Replaced it with the shade I came to know.
Desire remained above, and I below.
I thought I worshipped God; that shadow fell beneath the tower
Atop whose roof a golden cross shone bright
A solemn, ancient edifice of ritualistic power
That sometimes came as blessing, sometimes blight
But always blocked whatever made the light.
I thought I found myself; it was a shadow cast by dreams
That intervened between my thought and action.
“I think therefore I am” is not as simple as it seems
For what we think is subject to refraction
So what we are, a muddled-up redaction.
I think I’ve told the truth; these symbols printed on the page
Have shapes that seem to promise revelation
But really they’re just shadow puppets dancing on a stage.
Their shadows? Those we call “interpretation”.
Such shadows are the gist of all creation.
Simon MacCulloch lives in London. His poems live in Reach Poetry, The Dawntreader, Spectral Realms, Aphelion, Black Petals, Grim and Gilded, Ekstasis, Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, Ephemeral Elegies, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Emberr, View from Atlantis, Altered Reality, The Sirens Call, The Chamber Magazine, I Become the Beast, Lovecraftiana, Awen and elsewhere.
Amethyst Review 