the black bark of the receiving trees

this house is a graveyard
sitting on holy grounds and blackening the soils
full of what is not and what really weasn't
the memory lies as the perspectives change

ghosts in my graveyard
the black bark of the receiving trees
feeding from unusable husks shed in haste
whipping winds ringing through the night.

the ground shifts over time and
the blood of ink seeps up through the greying craggy peaks
risig like mountains into the night
jagged and unforgiving asking for more
taking only a single answer

the ghosts are black as coal
and burning just as hot
and they won't stop chasing me.
"come and face me, come and face me"
but i outrun them
praying for a way around a wall
though they promise safety and clean slates
though they promise cleaned hands
though they promise my futility
but there has never been trust.

black-red spirits following me like Japanses vampires
hopping
dragging their feet and leaving tracks
strewn in cursive text
leaving directions for the others

it is building.