Ghosts long vanished but still appearing fleet seductively across the veil of night, echoing their mournful sighs and wails against the brilliance of the stars, while I, in a more reflective mood, swing high in the branches of an old apple tree.
I have skipped the navigation of the regions of the dead because there are few sex symbols to be found there …. none that can be of any use to me in my present state, that is …. rather nebulous in its acrid state of rot is the ream of death, but fascinating enough to cause me to swing ever higher among the apples.
Oh hallowed souls at rest, around yon sacred shrine, what dread, unholy visions disturb sacred crypts of thine? Your pitiful lonely and mournful shrieks calm down and become a siren song of melody … melody wrapped in moth-eaten shrouds … but music nonetheless.
It is a haunting story, this night of visions, this night of natural sounds and un-natural sounds, of the heaving of the earth, of the clawing hand pushing up the dirt in front of ancient headstones …. the silent toll of a bell that hasn’t rung in centuries breaks through the still of the night with a sound that isn’t really there but stirs the soul anyway with tones and tunes imagined … felt, embraced, eaten … drunk like fine wine or clear water flowing from one or more of those crystal stars above.
I hear a crow somewhere in the distance … a tree frog … the croak of something I do not wish to see.
Something behind the apple tree, something I cannot see, something staring at me.
Yet, I do not wish for the spectre to depart, but I want it to remain and share what is on it’s moulding heart.
The only thing the ghost could share with me is stories of things that were before and never again can be … the image of itself in life long gone …. the image of myself bearing the burden of associating with something that is not really there …. but still is everywhere.
A materialized spawn of the night … broken fences quake beneath the weight of the weightless spectres gathering on its rails ….the soft summer breeze rustling the leaves of the trees … bearing the scent of decay and violets and all the green things …. all the things trampled beneath the feet of those who walk the night and who are so transparent that they cannot even see each other ….. and who barely notice me,
Swinging up there, way high up there, in that rotting old apple tree.
I hope nothing rises to take hold of my ankle and yet something does …. but I do not really feel it tugging at me …. wanting to unseat me from the swing …. wanting to drag my soul from my body and hang it on a star …. The swing begins to sing a song of its own …. but it isn’t a song I have ever heard or known …. less like a childlike tune, more like the mourning of a saddened moon.
Is that, then, the rising of the sun in the distance I see …. or is it the setting of the same sent to beguile and confuse me …. swinging in that tree …. awaiting the ghosts that nobody else can see ….
Oh my … ghost apples appearing within the leaves of the tree …. how oh how can such things be? Are they always there or are they there just for me? I see right through them and they see inside of me …silvery as the stars of the night sky …..transparent as something born to die ….ghost apples …. food for the spirit … the spirit of food … an anomaly to me …. something indeed that everyone should see …. how oh how can such things be?
A strange airy laugh from nowhere really … crimson lips that come and go … The apple tree bleeding the blood of all who are buried beneath it ….the red of blood, the blue of sky, the royal robes of all who die … and the silvery ghost apple as the sceptre upon which rests the severed head …. of at least one ancient one …. risen again from the long dead. …. to serenade me, in the swing up in the tree.