Some things are illusions

Shadows black, splat, upon the pavement,
and throw themselves on the house of stone.
Like a spider, crouched, waiting to pounce
thin, grey, etchings ooze, spread, pulling shades.
They’re too tired to wander, softly moan,
lacking a full life of their own.

Shadows, with ebony urges, glide . . .
blindly, without souls, lacking insight . . .
looking for a new corner to play.
Try as they might, they’re nothing but haze
that lingers somberly . . . causing fright
often when the moon casts it’s bright light.

Shadows, charcoal whispers of what’s real,
have nothing to strive for, never dream.
They linger in places remembered--
evading the ghosts of yesterday--
as they hide in the house of stones' beams.
If they could speak, their voices would stream.

Shadows finally vanish like webs
when light is cocooned, they’re all alone . . .
to linger in corners of our minds.