Darkness crawls upon the wall
at the just right angle revealed to all
except in the hour of shadow play
when passions fling and black turns gray.
Then who laughs at the cringing doll
who pulled its strings and master down?
The clouds have frozen perpetually
diffusing the light in the puppet’s dream.
These are dark times. There should be some lightness, but the darker the times, the more the light stings.