Sometimes, i feel like a ghost.
I'm sitting in an empty train car,
staring out at a barren countryside.
It's winter, the trees are dead, the sky is gray,
there's no trace of life outside,
no trace of life inside the train,
no trace of life inside of me.
This is the train in which
they transport my coffin.
The box that holds all that was me
as I sit as stare out the window
Sometimes, I feel like a ghost.

I stand in the door way, backlit.
The light casts my shadow
sprawling at my feet,
my roots in the carpet,
growing into twisting branches
of light blocked by my skin and
flesh and bones and thoughts
like trees growing since time began
and thorns and leaves
shedding and spreading
I am me
and my shadow is a tree.