Shadows And Charades

And yes, the friendship is unconventional
(as truth, or coincidence, or quirkiness)
and yet, when this haunted mouth speaks
of shadows, and drafts a dirty image of loss
your wise-owl eyes can see the picture drawn,
and view the underside; the quiet filthy truth,
and nod, and smile with thinned kind lips,
and understand. You understand. Those times,
when death’s charade seduces, and weighty
self-recriminations call, and everything so
intricately built from hurt and grief may
shudder with the impact of each day – then.
Then, you stand immobile, hearing even all
those soft-unspoken dreads, the fear. The fear.
Quietly, you raise a hand in peace, and radiate
acceptance. And so it is, despite the chasms
opening on either side of this worn and weary
path I tread, you hold me safe. Accepted,
understood. My friend, my fellow shadow.
My light, which casts away the negatives and
illuminates the subtleties of life, and love.