Anthony Liccione

Shadows

We are a past of shadows
Living only for today
Like scattered trees about the ground
We are our own individuals.
Breathing. Stretching. Tearing.
It is the fruit.
The branch brings.
What tells the heart:
If good or bad,
 
At harvest.
We are the color of skin
Like dry leaves:
Red. Yellow. Brown. Pale.
When the ghost blows his finger
Some hold – others let go.
 
We are a past of birds
Forgotten, but sufficient.
Up with the morning
Working for bread and worms
To race against the winter frost.
It is a skeleton line.
A tribulation, uninviting.
Then to lay down with the dawn.
And repeat.
 
We are the wings that wish.
To fly and implore,
Explore for locked away treasures.
A key to turn the century.
We are the soul that waits,
An angel to her flight.