The Phantom

What a profound suffocation,
So short the abbreviation of breath.
How deep the sensation,
restricting the phantom's inhalation,
coughing up and spitting out the heart of the figure.

What a rib crushing feature
of nights blue-black shadow
like a head-swelling fever
saturating its veins.

How the silver bullet stars pelt its skin,
How the moon rests unharmed in its smokey cloud den,
How it looks to the wind to expand its ribs
And the wind does,
it does.

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