Ghosts

Sometimes the reality of who we think we are is darker than the reality we truely live in.

She walks in a vail of night.
The stars her eyes, blind me with
their light, cold is the night.
Shadows of the trees, pure blackness.
Bones are the branches, grey are the
leaves, movements of the stems.
Demons notice my passing,
light of step.

Walking with timid ease,
skin crawling recklessness.
Trees bow down feeling my
presence, insecurities tingle
up and down my spine.

Snow filled trunks, their legs
of mystery.
Sounds escape the mouths of
the leaves.
Into the open away from my fears,
the trees bend and sway with laughter
and not the breeze.