In the silhouette that you see,
you know not who they are, but they await,
and in the black shape,
how do you define a person,
that is empty of humanity,
a simple thing that in its blackness brings a purity,
for they are unknown to you,
but humanity in its complexity brings misery,
unlike shadows and silhouettes,
for humanity it haunts,
and it taunts and disturbs your vision with its brutality,
and its mentality and its savagery,
but silhouettes and shadows,
they inspire me more,
more than the depressives that humanity brings to me
far too regularly,
and I regularly despair for humanity,
because humanity is not as intelligent,
and as educated as they would have you believe,
but shadows and silhouettes,
they inspire and please me more in nature's revelry,
and I would rather have shadows and silhouettes,
for in them,
their happiness is in the imaginings of what they may be,
and in the fantasy of the imaginings,
comes inspiration from out of the darkness,
but humans with their wars,
and their torturing,
their rapes and their murders,
and their greed,
their drugs and guns,
and their shootings on the streets,
their social disorders and their racism,
their intolerance,
and their inability to listen and understand,
and their sexual diseases,
and their failure to solve homelessness,
famine, drought, and poverty,
they live repeatedly in the mind,
and in the newspapers and in the magazines,
and on the radio and online,
and repetition after repetition,
they make the same mistakes again and again,
but shadows and silhouettes they are what they should be,
pleasing on the eye,
but gone in a moment,
and unlike humans,
they bring me happiness and are not a misery to me.
