I wait. For whom, I don’t remember. I’m in the woods; the woods where I’ve always been.
Tawny, muscled men and women live among the trees. They tap sustenance from each animal, every leaf. They fear me when the dark shrinks their fires.
Young men worship the sun. They chew the trees with steel teeth and commute the flesh into timber and frame. Their fires multiply and grow, but they fear me in the vastness of night.
The river rises, the people drown. Others return, subdue the water with concrete and glass. They conceal their fires but yield light so bright it blinds, renders all seeing. And yet they fear me when they close their eyes.
2 thoughts on “A Ghost Story”
are you talking about death here???
btw, love the poetry. It deep and well written