the shadow grows

it’s like it doesn’t even need food or water
like it contains its own fuel
and thrives whether
sunshine showers it or a chilly

cloudy night claims that favorite recliner
and doesn’t make more than half a peep when thunder
shakes the entire estate;
already giving a paleness

to the residents
who assumed they were here to stay
and wouldn’t have to submit to others,
especially such a monumental

kind of shadow; but really all
were fooled , or if not fooled, caught
unawares; this has happened before;
airways were hastily

cleared for new castles;
sure they teeter easy,
and sure the one wrong wind
from a reality coming from a harsher shift

where the terrain is more brutal
will blow them down; but
they have to be built;
just like just about any kind of canine

cannot do other than salivate
over most any kind of meat
no matter how sated
or how it might revolt

a stray sensitivity; and wow
talk about an indescribable scowl
– feel the stinger’s fire
from the other side

of the room where it was set
to rest and give all parties
a rest but resting
may be a foreign concept

if indeed it contains its own fuel,
meaning it contains not only its own
fuel but it makes its own fuel
or it doesn’t even need

fuel, for it is pure fuel and wants
to do nothing but party
all day and all night
forever and ever.

 

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About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
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