The Shadow

With nagging tongue I brushed aside
My sullen silhouette, the jammed details of
The nudging shadow by my side.
It sticks pitch-pitch to me
And rests under the long lonely tree
Of bare branches barked for medicine
Against the vanishing clouds of malignant sky.
It either kicks at me heels shrinking at noon
Or treads on my toes drawn-thin head and limbs.
Always tethered to my feet it browses
The ancient pastures with blazing pride.
And quarrels with my intestine
That lacks the muscle and enzyme
To digest the beaded cake and roasted rooster.

To cure the harping syndrome
Of the singing malady,
At last, I melted it in a crucible
And desiccated to powder
To mould again with my tinge
To make it breathe the expanding world.

But my processed shadow stands sterile,
And lives dead chewing the tasteless gum,
A masticating machine sans sinews.

Let the clock chime the hour for the sun

To vegetable the sullen silhouette,
And shape the jammed details
To burgeon into proper limbs-
No more a shadow
Of the reverberant world.