Cowering away From the ghost of a lover, Haunting me in dreams, Haunting me in the daylight, Longing for exorcism.
My pathetic shape, Hunched, like failure, avoiding Eye contact, hiding In slime pits of malcontent Obscuring the scars of life.
Before me is a mirror, but I cannot see My own reflection. The only thing I can see Is the Devil in the mist.
A solitary Squat ball of elastic bands, Lines tight in orbit With tension wrapped in layers, Colours crossing to the core.
A chasing wolf pack Hunting across midnight moors, Wild and weary, Noses leading to my scent, Awaiting, expecting, devouring.
A hollow in the crowd, A bubble of purity, Singular, within, Burning only, one in flames Licking around the believer.
Still falling from pages A waterfall of verbiage. The description runs, Pooling in paragraphs Draining away the poesy.
Enter daydreamer, Blindfolded, shackled and lost, Rebounding from one Half-formed, bloated grotesque to Another, without a sense.
Still light arises, Hauling a mirage of day To provoke delight And stoke the ashes of the Crumbled husks of night terrors.
My pitiful room, Discontent with a feeble Lacerated curtain Resigned to a flat, listless Impediment of light and sleep.