because He was not a ghost

Here in the hale hollow
about shadow-cloaked moth
and moon-blooded beams
run the sightless streams
and sunless dreams
where wroth is the eye that cannot follow

Therein lies the middle mystery
some riddle I never caught on to
wind whispering answers that are not
but seemed to be
what worthless crop I bought as true
at least
that's how my soul seemed to me

Alone and akin
to nothing but myself

Until in that hollow darkness
a hallowed hand grasped the root of the tree

I trembled in fear as something stirred down within the deep
mountains making their way down to be
witnesses to the strange light
son-lit reflections in a living gem
of dreamers rising from their sleep

and that was why He ate with Them