when the mist comes up
laying there like a blanket
fog rising like a whale surfacing
ghosts flit past and through
misty grounds of silent dreams
hiding in the future
the modern mind says “it’s not real”
walking alone in the darkness
footsteps echoing behind
ghosts arrive unbidden
shaped by memories
ghosts standing solid in empty doorways
ghosts made by blood and by choice
hiding behind garden gates
faces staring back through the years
the rational mind says “it’s not real”
the lizard brain says “but it could be”.
© 2025 Bruno Talerico
Stafford challenge 287/365.
Desert Dweller 