The gate thrusts violently, locked, fighting to break
In the calm winter night, as a feverish chill bites,
I approach, slowly shuffling my steps, barely holding
Myself from trembling, for an ominous glow, spotlights,
Keeping my focus locked tight upon the grumble
Kicking up a fog, putting the world, behind blinds,
A narrow tunnel, that I should be running away from,
Why, nothing is being kept beyond the clanging rattle
But the phantom, craning out from the spreading myth,
A tale I’ve heard countless times, that I now sink
Into the words, whispers crawl up my spine of its legitimacy,
Claiming control over my consciousness, a cold
Grasp inside my chest, turning up the bass drum,
I drop to my knees, hoping it’s enough of an anchor,
I beg for it to end, as the fog comes in closer
And the lock, loses its hold, letting the gate creak,
Piercing my malleable skull, inviting the dread
Right in, as they loop under my arms and drag
Me through the gate and into the asylum,
Then into my padded closet, and finally the choke,
Nothing left inside my head, but the story
That had chased after me, and forever stalks
Me in the shadowed corner, until I let the phantom go.
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