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.