Susan

An echo of light, which equates to light's soul? Or the negative of life, immune to the cold? An eclipse of a pen, tracing thoughts in a poem, hiking under each line, for a permanent home? Every dream has its shadow, which awakening erases Then washed in times steam, slowly wipes out all traces How many hearts might your shadows touch, as they reach out carefully, deep below every line? Silent as death, they would love to speak out Yet their lot in this life amounts to that of a mime And so the consensus of the majority concedes, it cannot be defined, just a ghost in the breeze I highly object, inspiration agrees, from the heat of life's pen, we seek shade from the trees