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Climbing Trees

Twisty toes, stretched out fingers,
somehow there's always a speck
in the eyes.
Leaves often brush the face.
At the top is where I rest,
absolutely none looks up,
they scurry past.
I hear them speak,
words in nothingness to me.
My perch, my throne,
I rule all the delusions
I own, my ghost pals
sit by me. We exchange
a telepathic banter.
It would be disease but they
are friendlies.
I keep them to me
they to me.
When one is missing,
I look for clues
how to get it back.
Was it something I said,
did? I don't want any of them
bumped off.
It’s easier with them
by me.