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Black wood and ghostly whispers (Marcella Boccia)
Black wood and ghostly whispers (Marcella Boccia)
The trees lean in, hushed conspirators,their spines black against the salted dusk.Wind threads through the branches,a cold hand slipping through ribs.I walk where the earth swallows footsteps,where silence blooms in damp lungfuls,where shadows wear the faces of the deadand call my name with mouths of leaves.Somewhere, a fox slips between the roots,its breath white, vanishing—a ghost that never learned to haunt.I envy its quiet escape.The wood hums with voices I cannot name,soft as apologies, sharp as regret.They settle in my bones,and I let them stay.
The trees lean in, hushed conspirators,their spines black against the salted dusk.Wind threads through the branches,a cold hand slipping through ribs.I walk where the earth swallows footsteps,where silence blooms in damp lungfuls,where shadows wear the faces of the deadand call my name with mouths of leaves.Somewhere, a fox slips between the roots,its breath white, vanishing—a ghost that never learned to haunt.I envy its quiet escape.The wood hums with voices I cannot name,soft as apologies, sharp as regret.They settle in my bones,and I let them stay.
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By MARCELLA BOCCIABlack wood and ghostly whispers (Marcella Boccia)
The trees lean in, hushed conspirators,their spines black against the salted dusk.Wind threads through the branches,a cold hand slipping through ribs.I walk where the earth swallows footsteps,where silence blooms in damp lungfuls,where shadows wear the faces of the deadand call my name with mouths of leaves.Somewhere, a fox slips between the roots,its breath white, vanishing—a ghost that never learned to haunt.I envy its quiet escape.The wood hums with voices I cannot name,soft as apologies, sharp as regret.They settle in my bones,and I let them stay.
The trees lean in, hushed conspirators,their spines black against the salted dusk.Wind threads through the branches,a cold hand slipping through ribs.I walk where the earth swallows footsteps,where silence blooms in damp lungfuls,where shadows wear the faces of the deadand call my name with mouths of leaves.Somewhere, a fox slips between the roots,its breath white, vanishing—a ghost that never learned to haunt.I envy its quiet escape.The wood hums with voices I cannot name,soft as apologies, sharp as regret.They settle in my bones,and I let them stay.