All spiritus, no corpus.
All swivel, no chair.
Lungs heavy
with dust-glutted air
making my labored way
to a nowhere
slightly out of place.
I keep my phantoms close
I need them, to stalk
the chambers
of my perception
and furnish them
with lament.
I need their ghastly eyes
upon me constantly,
to confirm to myself
mine own veracity.

-r. miller

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