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The Shadows of Life

Updated on February 14, 2012

The Shadows of Life

By Tony DeLorger © 2011

Amid the intolerable hardships of life’s iniquitous betrayal, we, the scarred faces of humanity, wander the earth seeking redemption. Looking to the heavens we plead our vulnerability, our ineptitude and imperfections to gain favour and be released from suffering. We wallow in our humanity; the grit the filth and slime of lose tongues, thoughts and fractious deeds, surround our ineffectual lives like brooding clouds of doom. No God utters a word, not a hint of recognition guides our course, just the sound of bleeding.

Life’s duplicity is complete, an ongoing play of treachery, a beguiling followed by the blow of recompense, our reward for ignorance. Battered, we tread the burnished paths of the world, limping our way to our next folly. Lessons like wounds bleed from us, unholding their truth and misunderstood, to sail the skies like balloons released, free from thought.

How bare we stand, naked of all knowledge and cold under a reticent sun. Clothed by thoughts of fairytales, they fall to dust leaving pallid skin, void of all defence. Spectres walk among us trying in vain to touch our rancid flesh, to bring them back from death to join the throng of living fools. Their sallow skin draped over pointed bones, their eyes dull and lost to death, follow in desperate vows of salvation.

The streets are dark and ridden with remnants of day, flickers of life near buried by silence. Dark walkers stumble from one gloom to another, unaware of the light of possibility. Above the spires of greed loom like sentinels, their colourless glass and cement structures bending, relentlessly cowering from the light of day. The creatures within, like ants, crawl the labyrinths; the corridors of unremarkable frenzy. One like the other they tarry; their tasks as bland as their faces. In the quietness of twilight, when shadows stretch to fading, you can hear the clotting of hearts and the long steps of the reaper, wandering the halls of emptiness.

In hovels large and small, the sweat of day is entrenched with lies, driven to being by life’s moralless drones. They nestle in their nests safe within their deceit, warm with the knowledge of avoiding exposure. Dreams are few, their blank minds limited by the dull hues of the mundane. So they sleep; their bodies plump from gluttony, their snoring and snorting like tremors, from the vile pens of pigs. Their children dream of possessions, their greed and gluttony learned from their parents, an exemplary gift.

Rats scurry beneath the darkest streets, thriving on the refuse of humanity, the squaller that so exemplifies society. At least the rats know what they are, and act accordingly. Humanity lives a dream, unknowing, destructive and self-effacing in their decimation of life and world.

Within the shadows anger rises and crime ensues. Torn flesh, blood and sex permeate the black, the darkness alive with human mayhem. The grunts of animals, the cries of pain and the sobbing of hearts in grief fill the shadows until the sun, unwilling as it is, rises. Then the shadows become internal, darkening the souls of men and seeking gratification in the possibilities of hunger.

Wayward beings rise once more to join the procession of dark life, forever gleaning the fragments of learning to forge a path to better greed. Into the spires they crawl, one like another, vacant expressions, bloated bellies, they sit. Wires protrude from them, grey and stiff, connecting to the shadow world of lies and deceit, for another day of life.


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