Shadows: A Poetic Dance of Light, Grids, and Reflection #Poetry

A patchwork of sun-salted air,
a lattice of doubt stretches wide,
beneath the canopy of crooked dreams,
where shadows stretch like unruly tendrils,
grasping at the ankles of time.

Gridlock beneath my soles:
geometry is not a cage but a cradle,
a paradox of order birthing chaos.
Here lies the great salad of the unknown—
tossed leaves of shadow and light,
vinegared by motion,
peppered by whispers of breeze.

The figure (is it me? Is it you?)
dances with the unforgiving floor—
concrete, static, unmoving, yet
alive with the agony of cracks.
Each step fractures silence,
each pause freezes rebellion.

Branches drip like ink onto the canvas of my world.
Leaves dissolve into a language forgotten:
I cannot read their tongues,
but I taste their accent in the air.
The sharpness of their voice cuts the light,
spilling dark shapes over tiled certainty.

What is a body but a question mark,
flattened and stretched?

The grid beneath is more than prison bars.
It is a recipe.
A salad of moments diced into squares:
the earthy root of stillness,
the bitter crunch of spontaneity,
a sprinkle of imbalance,
and the zesty dressing of escape.

The sun whispers her secret ingredient,
slipping past the iron quilt—
spillage—a forbidden splash of warmth
over this checkerboard monotony.
But no warmth can coax
these shadows to sprout wings.

I see myself reflected in your absence.
You are the shadow,
and I am the absence that created you.
Together, we are ingredients
of a dish no one ordered.
A sculpture of light and void.

---

What of the branches above?
Ah, the silent chorus,
leafy onlookers stretching their limbs
to weave nets of forgotten songs.
Their fingers flirt with the air,
as if trying to unmake the grid
beneath them.

---

Shall we eat the light?
Layer it like lettuce,
strip its essence bare and raw.
Shall we crunch on the squares beneath?
Take that solidity into our teeth,
crumble it down like dry croutons
left too long in the open air.

And what of the shadow’s hand,
reaching—half-waving, half-pleading?
Will we bite the fingers
of silhouettes too bold to hide?

I pick at the metaphor:
a salad of contrasts—
the sun, the shadow,
the man that once walked
but now stands still.

I add a dash of absurdity,
a sprinkle of rebellion.
I will not dice this neatly.
No square shall confine my story.

---

The lines overlap, layer upon layer,
tension brewing in the grid.
What is rebellion but
the shadow misbehaving,
a hand extended past its boundary?
A figure breaking free of definition?

---

Imagine:
The shadow becomes a soup.
The grids melt into broth,
salty and seasoned by memory.
Your figure dissolves into vapor,
rising—escaping—
becoming cloud.

The trees above shiver
in joy or jealousy.
They wish to eat your freedom
but are bound to roots.

The air, however, devours you.
You are gone—
a vapor threading through branches,
a suggestion of shape lingering,
a word unspoken yet known.

---

This salad does not obey.
Its taste is unfamiliar:
neither sweet nor bitter,
but something else entirely—
a tang of longing,
a texture of contradiction.

---

The shadow moves,
but only within its cage.
Each shift a rebellion
kept at bay by the grid.
Who drew these lines?
Who decided where light ends
and darkness begins?

I reach for the shadow.
It does not touch me,
but I feel it in my bones.
The memory of light,
the ache of absence,
the unspoken sorrow of being.

---

You are not real, yet you exist.
I cannot escape you.
You cannot escape me.
Together we form the unorthodox salad,
a dish of questions,
of forgotten steps and restless skies.

Will we ever be consumed?
Or shall we linger, uneaten,
a mystery on a plate too large to hold us?

---

A final toss,
and the poem falls silent.

#Poetry #ShadowArt #AbstractInspiration #PoetryOfLight #ExperimentalPoetry #ModernArt #PhotographyInspiredPoetry