Phantom of Grief

I dreamt his eyes were upon me,

Pipistrelle orbs of jet-gold,

As he floated above the Earth,

A figment in the nature

Of living in the dead,

A force existing in my head,

Whilst pressing down upon the cloth

That held me stripped to my bed.

His palms clutched all my dreams,

Yet were contained within them.

Lock and barrel minds

If one wants to keep from losing,

Losing serenity, entirety,

All of that mental capacity

To store desire in the heart;

He took possession of the irony

In the crumbling world,

A teardrop sterling manner,

Prize beyond material belief;

In the resonance of his castle

Lie the false pretensions

He thrusts into our supposition:

Humanity lives to carve monsters

From the running creatures tucked

In memories.

From this, he dares arrive,

Clad in sarcasm, weakness, valour

From cowardice brewed,

And he comes to me without repress,

To take what good I ever owed,

Insensitive in dreaming

For the better;

Arisen, the deep and dark

Of superstition that one casts

Into the heart of every fickle,

Interchangeable situation:

That of reveries, he takes,

Phantom of all subtle sleep.

The End

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