July 2025 Editor's Choice:The Ghostly Greetings

Lost in a still life

the ashes I have lived,

with no admission to my surrealism gardens of stone and icons play.

With these eyes I pretend not to see the fullness of a flower,

believing in the embers of unease thy protagonists play.

Out of parallel my sense of limits,

decorating time a course to be set.

In an array of quiet I experience why,

meet me in where I burrow speak to me in the sounds of uncertain days.

What is it to pray?

A misunderstood mask,

the cosmic road to the gods.

Lonely stories as told by yesterday no truths no lies,

if an echo dies does the earth listen?

With asking eyes

the dominance of sight to yield between the lines I write,

still I miss a soft word.

A concourse of dark and beauty a utopia in the unexpressed,

what truth of faith shall I write?

Mysterious vistas without a core,

this obsession with the unconscious.

To trust in what's not real from nearby stars the truth of my sinking.

Never on my own keeping pace with what's behind me,

in thy ghostly greetings I remain content.

What is to be born of my captivity?

The soil beneath my feet to thee I listen...

© GREGG WALLING