As morning sun shall rise, so shall it set
To mete again a sweet or bitter day
And so once surely gone, it rises yet
To mark of time in single candled ways.
So measured life in darkness and in light
Plays out in puppet shadows on a wall
As if by some mischievous manus sleight
Designed to there amuse or yet to gall.
From golden sconce forever hope is shone
So life is bourn amidst quotidian dreams,
Penumbra shadows that do wax and wane;
A trite ombromanie upon a screen.
There still we dance beneath that rising sun
As shadows prance ‘til darkest night shall come.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.