At each corner there hangs a great light, a signal beacon telling us to stay or go, or slow. Their shadows ebb and flow instantly, endlessly. As if, at each turn of life, some great work of art were present, to illuminate with it’s beauty the simple choices that so often confound. There are twenty six lamps in my house, one is always on. All the other shadows come, and go. They are all mere shadows themselves, of that greatest shadow. That which lays patiently at the feet of all, and lingers behind even the greatest joy.
These marks on this page are only a shadow of ideas
Low spring light raking
Like atomic ghosts on brick
walls, vaporized souls
A haibun for the prompt at dVerse