Count, a poem

Count

I count the shadows scattered by your lights.
Is that one mine? It wavers, fades, to be
replaced by dancing multitudes, each turned
away, each blind, deaf, each alone, each held
in place by faded twins. They move with me,
now growing, shrinking, through our flickering
reality. I guess wrong and again
must count. I count until there are no more.

Stephen Brooke ©2026