THE TREE'S GHOST

You kick and step and stand and walk on the table that you think you own
You know you own it
You know it has no feelings or any means to think
You know it's yours, to do whatever with
But you don't know there's no such thing as ghosts
You don't think about the ghost of where your table came from
trees are living things, they breath like you and I, they defend themselves, in their own way
like we do
But if you thought about it, you'd feel it necessary to take away from yourself
To give more to the tree(s)
And not receive from said tree(s)
You wouldn't be as comfortable without something to rest your rear end on
Your things wouldn't look as nice without something to put them on
Never you mind the possibility of your table feeling pain
Of your chair, your entertainment center
Never you would
Because you are the King
You are different, you are you, you have the knife, the tree does not
take from the land, never you mind giving thanx or slowing down
your use of trees and other living things
their ghosts don't haunt you, neither will your conscience
Sleep easy on your bed, is it also partly made of trees?
Never you mind, the speed in which you kill
Without pity, without remorse
You own the land
You have the knife, the tree does not