My house is haunted
By the ghosts of trees
On whose graveyard it stands.
I’m afraid to sleep.
Every night I hear them whisper
Stories of their times to each other.
No green. No brown.
Only grey. The colour of concrete.
The colour of ash after they burned down.
I have mud on my hands.
I have their blood on my hands.
Beneath my house their roots will rot and die.
My house is haunted
By the ghosts of trees
On whose graveyard it stands.
My Musings in Meditation 