23rd on 12th
Twilight on a quiet street, a mile of color soaked doors salute in the fading sunlight. The setting sun tries its best to compete with the defiant doors. Their battle is true beauty.
But should shaded eyes look closer there is even more. For in the corners stand the shadows of each and every door. And while the colors are at war, the shadows gather all the more.
And what is in these silent sentinels? They are always there to absorb the action of the day, though they hide from the bright sun rays. They quickly grab hold, a passerby, to ride from one post to another. In the early hours they lurk and in dusk they grow, but the night, the night is theirs.
When the doors no more strive to catch one’s eye, the shadows take their hold. They sweep and grasp and cover, the night is theirs to behold. Drinking in, with enthusiasm wild, the world around them, dark and cold.
No longer guarded at restricted posts, they fill the air with their being. Darkened souls and broken angels’ wings, reveling. They know your secrets, and mine as well. The words are no longer ours, but theirs to tell.
But one should not be lost to fret for holding secrets gives them power. They will keep them hidden, ace in sleeve. They can see right through you, hear most inner thoughts.
So should you find yourself on the quiet steps of this gate, marveling at pride and risks taken, be sure there is a shadow near you, waiting to be fed. And should it need a ride from one frame to the next, where I you, I wouldn’t falter, but aid as you are able.
Twilight at 23rd on 12th.
by J.E. Wertenberger 1-22-2009