the Shadow went a wandering,
up the hill, down to the vale,
all the while a pondering.
He sat on the bench by the park,
a frown on his brow, a sigh on his lips.
Light, through the branches of the tree
above, played along his fingertips.
For years he had been looked upon,
as inadequate, the lesser man.
For years he’d tried to change their minds,
until the day he’d had enough-he ran.
He’d tried to stay away from eyes,
which pierced and scrutinised.
He found comfort in others who,
like him, the darkness prized.
For in the dark he felt at peace,
some solace in the privacy,
society in the solitude,
powerful in the primacy.
He admired her from a distance,
her brilliance all but dazzled white;
he fell in love with her that instant,
uncertain reciprocity aside.
He tried calling out to her,
but she always seemed to stay
as a whisper here, an almost there,
close enough, but far away.
One gloomy day, he braved the storm,
battled his demons, won the fight.
Come sunshine, he would be the one
to express his feelings to the Light.
She was aware, she said to him,
she’d tried to reach him, but in vain.
What makes the heart feel featherlight,
might weigh it down to drown in pain.
Eternal desire and irony;
for each other, no two were better made,
only in Shadow can you admire the Light
and only in Light, can you admire the shade.