the trees with her eyes,
the way stars shine through veiny
winter branches as if adorned with lights.
It is her voice which speaks inside,
a mind as twisted as the branches.
He arises in the dead of night
picking up the book again
to wallow in safe despair
pining for a ghost
who haunts his fevered dreams.
The poems come alive in her soft tone
picturing her writing at a lonely desk.
This is not natural...he knows.