So slightly below the splintered white ceiling,
I dreadfully shrieked at what the wall was revealing.

An apparition so putrid it rendered me ill.
Petrified numb I stood soundlessly still.

It felt as if glancing into an ominous mirror,
One in which my grisly demise was ever so nearer.

The bones were exposed and the face had decayed,
Sockets were empty and the skin had been flayed.

The hideous doppelganger then wearily stated,
Soothsaying that my damnable soul was ill-fated.

Like a rabid old beast I lunged at the wraith,
Viscously clawing and drubbing to scathe.

I suddenly swooned and plunged with a thud,
Awakening later in a pool of my blood.

As I lay moribund on this cold winter's night,
I stare at the wall with a terrible fright.

The spot on the wall which I relentlessly beat
Shone with the crimson of fresh slaughtered meat.

But the blood on the wall was not just a stain,
Rather my portrait of whom I have slain.