Phantoms

It is not the hoary visions that come,
While within the confines of my slumber,
That stir up such emotions of raw dread;
Nor is it the fantastic phantasms,
Which nightmare haunt, and hell hath issued forth,
That grip my soul with icy, gnarled claw;
But rather, it is the spirits that come
While I wake, while I work, while I amble
Through the motions that comprise the daily
Life which I, although not wholly by my own,
Have created for myself to abide,
That rend my heart and subsume me into
Their nebulous nature, where nihilism
Is my only comfort, for within its
Empty embrace I find mirrored my own
Sense of futility, warped by the pain
I bear from drinking life’s poisoned potion.
When I am thus assaulted by phantoms,
Whose countenances are wholly unknown,
Yet are not any the less abhorrent,
I am left with but one recourse with which
I may respond to their faceless horror,
To their nameless dread, to their formlessness
Which but serves to multiply and compound
The abominable affect upon
The very fibers of my innermost
Being, I pour forth great torrents of words,
With hope that within their cathartic gush
Those things that have taken up residence,
In the precious places I hold private,
Will be expunged back into the ether,
Which beyond my senses lies still, and holds
The empty expanse of eternity.