Ghost Trees.

My morning walk sighting what  I call Ghost Trees.

These trees carry such a potent presence—skeletal, dignified, almost sentinel-like.

Their smooth, pale bark and the way their limbs reached out like frozen gestures gave them the essence of ghost trees, which is precisely what I felt when I looked at them.

There’s something both vulnerable and powerful in their bareness,

As if they’ve shed everything to stand as memory keepers of the land.

They don’t hide anything.

They witness.

There’s a sacred hush in the scene,

Green earth, still water, and those pale trunks like bones rising from silence.

It feels like a threshold place,

Where the past lingers in plain sight.

I was haunted and inspired, feeling both, as they crossed my heart.

Catching my eye, calling the deep silence within me forward.

For a moment, I felt they were mirroring me—

How far I’ve come,

What it has cost me,

And yet still… nowhere calls me to go.

I’ve seen too much.

I know too much.

I’ve felt too much.

I've lived too much

I’ve opened too much.

And now, I cannot see at all.

For all it’s taken, nothing has filled my heart once more.

Though it stays open and true,

I just cannot live in the face of what’s not true.

I did the work.

I grew through nothing.

No hand reached back.

And so I found that none of what was taught is actually true.

We have all been lied to.

Fed dreams that are not real.

Made to feel we are not enough—

When the truth is, sometimes we are too much.

For truth is like a fugue that must be dismissed—

It cannot exist within the masks and mirrors.

And for one who has seen behind the spell-casting curtain,

Not much holds the heart’s attention in vain.

Because when you know too much…

You become a ghost

Who has seen just too much? And too wise to cry or say anything at all. For no one can hear the ghosts call.  But it has not yet disappeared.

They stood like ghosts at the edge of memory,

Pale, unarmoured, stripped of voice.

The grass was lush, the pond serene,

But they no longer belonged to spring.

Not dead. Just silenced.

Still here, still watching,

While everything else moved on.

Delahrose