Fiction · Poetry · Uncategorized


no choice but to walk in circles
on synthetic stain-resistant earth.
to keep him at bay.

nevertheless, chattering fingertips push softly
just enough fervor to excorcise these…
Phantoms, i suppose.

fickle as the morning dew,
as unforgiving as God.

by another word they are unjustly called,
like the carpet beneath me,
swimming the chemicals in my brain
a fugazi, the Phantom, pushing for war
a war already lost, a war not worth the spoils.


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