In Plato's Cave

We sit together in a cave, a fire behind us.
We are able to see our shadows.
Our shadows appear be dancing,
but we are not.

The only things dancing are flames,
an erratic dance,
not to be confused with the erotic.

Sure, we’d like to dance, but we are prisoners bound tight
with the ropes
we are likely to swing by.

To see light dance, if only in the form of shadows
is a liberation,
small, indeed, though it surely must be.

Hands down, hope always beats desperation.