Dust swirled and transformed
into ghosts.
They whispered,
begged,
pleaded that he stop.
The ground is dry in agony.
It cries in remorse.
But Kenneth doesn't hear—
not the ghosts,
and not the world.
He is kneeling now;
soon, he will stand again.
He will swing.
He will kneel.
He will stand.
Such is his life now:
a constant monotony.
Upright once more,
Kenneth ignored the hymns of the tree
and shooed the ghosts of the ground with blistered hands.
There was a time he entertained both—
a time he soaked the dirt with his tears
and wallowed with the phantoms.
He's since stopped.
Is it because he's all dried up?
Because he has no more tears to cry?
No. It's simpler than that.
He's angered,
and incapable of feeling sorrow.
Even simpler.
It's because he's strong?
Simpler!
He's forgotten.
He no longer remembers.
The earth is too old to listen,
and the ghosts are too shallow to understand.
It's lonely.
And the tree only exists to mock.