platonic ponderings

  

i recall

that when I was a child

the scroll atop my dresser

appeared to be a lion on the wall

and even as i grew

and knew

that it was but a shadow

still i puzzled o’er the shape

 

caught up in believing

that wood was somehow true

i yearned for it

to hold the shape of its creator

and cease its frightful roar

 

and now that i’m all grown

and know

it is the dance of light through form

that twists

the beauty of a carving

into fear

 

i can perhaps too easily

roll over, close my eyes

or focus on the light

 

but what of that lion on the wall?

 

what is it that the scroll unfurls

when bathed in nighttime’s light

what is it

that she beckons me to read

  

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