i have not dwelt
simply to haunt the stubborn
nor to be wasted away
by tides of hubris.
i may be a mere spectre
but i am nary a ghost
nor another figment of your
mischievous imagination.
you may think me but
another flickering shadow
lingering past peripheral visions,
in the darker corners of your
tired, bleary, hallucinating eyes,
but i am not transient
and quiet mantras and disheartened
prayers will not be enough to
make me go away, vanish.
and my silhouette shall eclipse
your sunrise mind, until
persistence turns to paranoia
and mysticism turns to madness,
morphing your shallow dreams
into abyssmal nightmares...
you deserve it,
for you are a murderer—
you have not killed my body,
but you have mercilessly mutilated
my spirit, leaving my heart
beating steady yet badly hollow,
making me vainly ache
for the former tragedy instead.
with what you have done,
it is only fair and just for me
to be the deathless past
billowing rather furiously
behind your closed curtains,
trapping you in my perpetual gale
as you have done to me.
for i have not dwelt simply
to be another superstitious legend
passed around in whispers,
nor will i stay in insignificant limbo
just to be entirely washed away
by the arrogant tides of
the fear you once called love.