Poem: That Same Shadow Floats Across The Wall

That Same Shadow Floats Across The Wall

or maybe a different one
cast again in that place
and into the same darkness
with the same shape
that moves as the last one did,
but it may not be the same shadow,
just another that is the same.
Does it even matter
if it is the same shadow?
What would make it the same one?
I mean, is it the light or the thing casting it?
I call each shadow I cast, mine,
but is each one another that is mine as well
or the same one that comes with me
and comes out again and again
in different places and times.
Is there a difference?
It is a shadow.  It is an absence,
a marking of light that has been stolen away
by some form that intercedes between source and surface.
It is only an absence that we have named,
an absence with a form and the capacity to move and dance.
I have seen the shadows dance their empty dances.
It is a thing that happens, at certain times.
Does it make them anything more,
or is it only an accident, an illusion?
Are they even less than an absence
but not even anything at all?

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