The Shadow.

My dear, oh so dear friend, I'm ill, oh so very ill. This pain Comes again, A screaming void, An emptier, A howling wind In a desolate field. Or is it my inner Dreamer Deprived of sleep and senses Rebels on me: Sheds away my brain cells Like autumn leaves? My ears wobble On my noddle. My head Can't stand Standing on my neck, Tries to take A flight. Meanwhile, A dark, oh so dark shadow, A shade, oh so shady shadow, On my bed she sits, Doesn't let me sleep. Her finger traces lines, Scrolling the scroll, While she whispers to me Like a priest to a corpse, Reading me… life… Of some psycho and drunk Filling me with Aversion and murk. «Listen. Listen.» The Shadow's hissing, The scroll’s unraveling, The finger's slithering - «To these thoughts and ideas, awesome project proposals. This society of patterns - she prefers "petals" (of madness) - she still exists in this forsaken place run by merciless crooks, and shameless cynics, amidst the self-fulfilling prophecies and lies, grey skies, and endless cowardice. Once upon a time when snow shined like Devil's silver and snowflakes danced in starry lights she fancied herself a hero, a proud apostate, and maybe a trickster, preferring mischief to their lies. Thought herself gracious, a voice of mercy with a duty to lit the lights, and maybe a poet with imagination that ran so wild. She called this man she hardly knew “her beloved Baby Blue". She said "Happiness, it just so happens, belongs to liars who tarnish the Golden Rule, as for the rest - it's gloom and pity at best, and maybe charity sex". She used to say "Do what you must and come what may". She used to claim that when you lose and people all around you are so stupid, obnoxious or daft that you feel that you've had quite enough, you're supposed to chin-up and smile, if only to defy, to stick it up to someone, to learn from your mistakes, to be less wrong the next time.» Hey you, missy, Who the fuck cares? Mind your own business, You dirty nightmare! Stop peeking at mine. One of these days I'll forget to be kind. What's it to me, Her stupid life? Go shove your scroll Where no sun shines. And the Shadow stares straight, Deep into my eyes, As if she knows That on the inside I'm an impostor and a beast Like all these Crooks and thieves. And the only difference is That this Child of darkness Is still fooling herself Into aspiring to believe. ... My dear, oh so dear friend, I'm ill, oh so very ill. This pain Comes again, A screaming void, An emptier In a desolate field. Or is it my inner Dreamer Deprived of sleep Rebels on me: Sheds away my senses Like autumn leaves, Pretends to be wise, Sings to me? Silent night, lonely night All is calm, all is bright. In the distance, outside, A wildcat growls, Or is it an owl? The wind begins to howl. All the wooden horses, All the wooden men Are moving in closer Completing the encirclement. Shiny white flakes Coat Their branches, the fields. And I await no one Neither friend nor enemy. Only my Shadow Won't leave me… This dark, or so dark Shadow, This Shade, or so shady Shadow, The guest so well-known So unwelcomed, Scrolling the scroll, Can’t leave me alone. «Come on now, darling» The Shadow's muttering, Leaning in closer, Almost touching. «I don't think I've seen any of the obscene so needlessly suffering. Why aren't you sleeping? Ah! Let's blame the scene: the half-born Moon! Haven't you been? Right... On these noons you’re so clean, barely human, never playing, always preaching, almost pontificating. What? Still cannot think of anyone or anything but that mere figment of your "powerful imagination"? How about a revelation: you are too old for imaginary friends with hearts of gold. What? Can no longer separate reality from dreams, my dear Alice from Underworld? Here's a well-meaning advice: do as all do, drink, buy, socialize. Talk to real people, like your nephew or niece. I can make them call you, whenever I please. Or better yet, find a bedwarmer, there’re apps for that. When will you finally see, that you're like all the rest with you scroll, your sins, and your dreams? What? Still thinking yourself a poet, but lacking talent, readers, and grammar? What? Still pining over the “sexy sexagenarian”? What's your new nickname for him? "Your future anything"? Don't you know, my little wimp, that you never can win. C'mon, it's not even funny. Remember the litany: "What is true is already so. Owning up to it doesn't make it worse. Hiding doesn't make it go away. And because it is true, it's what's there anyway. What's untrue isn't there to be lived. No matter how much you want to believe. And you can stand the truth, for you're already enduring it."» The truth is at least two-edged sword, Think long and hard on your next words! I'm still the Master of this world, Can conjure up whatever I want. Like, say, The mighty Vorpal blade From that Underworld. Choose: your arm or your neck? (The inquisitor's only staring back.) The Vorpal blade goes snicker-snack! Cutting off the bloodless hand. The Shadow drops the scroll, and As it falls It dissolves Into shiny white flakes Flying away With the wind To cover the field. ... My dear, oh so dear friend, I'm ill, oh so very ill. This pain Comes again, An emptier In desolation. Or is it my inner Dreamer Rebels on me: Sheds away my doubts Like autumn leaves, No longer dreams, Dares to be? «There she sits on her linens. In appearance how like a woman, a paragon of all creatures. Still breathing. Still pondering her questions. Still *not* giving-up. Not giving-in. Alone with me.»