Shadows play tricks, making me believe what isn't there. It's all an illusion. A clever deception that disappears before the sun sets. Who's to know what was real and what was make believe. For shadows will always disappear, to only remain as fragments of distant memories. Left behind is the silence and fading recollections. So I drift away. And should the shadows return once again, what was once is no more, but lost and gone forever.
© the dishonest woman
Photograph by Ian Fyfe
