Phantom
Blue heaven lying beneath the shapeless moon night,
Clad in grey, in boots pitch black, he stood there.
A man of few words was "he";
Aloof, widowed and bleak.
Mundane and labelled weak;
Habitual to be unseen.
Inhaling the bitter cig, addicted! he wearily grieves,
Deplorably, at his slain dreams.
Debris of fragmented blades , entombed in his veins,
the demons framing his shame , how vain!
Self-hate failed to abstain.
Bridled by his woes, he mercilessly pleads, to those that he owes,
Disdained by his colleagues, tattling, 'He reaped what he sowed!'.
Destined to be abhorred, believing,
Drained, tattered and throbbing with pain...
Until he came upon a painted lake,
Of withered souls akin, languishing, to be sane...
12-8-19
Eight Word Challenge
Emile Pinet
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