A Silhoutte Besides

The days are filled with mirth, A dancing, a fancy, turn at birth, Of a person told to make things work, There will be a company of words, Put together in such a way, That one's own pain is bearable, Then you chance it to trace the silhouette, Of one's own shadow that is cast, Upon the wall, there was a small, Reasonable amount to account for, The shades of a head there cast, With patience and careful willingness, Someone traces the lines as not blind, They see with their minds an eye, A freedom in sight that is likewise, A portrait of a person there disguise, Makes a perfectly wise piece of the pie, To seek out the semblance of a man!