The Ghoul

You and I stroll through the streets, two doves fluttering through the plot, wildly in love.

My smile as bright as the city lights, your eyes wide, roaming the crowds, ignoring the clouds.

Our fingers entangle, a smile, your lips grace mine.


– You were my spine; how could you not have seen the signs? –


He enters the stage, the interloper who seized the final scene from the screen.


– The one who set to music what was unspoken, unscripted the script, ripped it to shreds, cut us short –


I merely sense a presence, a lurking fear, a glance behind, he is so near.

The figure crawls within reach, veiled only in a translucent haze, yet you claim not to see the phantom’s trace.

No, it’s true, the vesper is drenched in a haunting hue. So I protest, persist: “This creature is malign.”

A thought whizzes through my head: “He may bring me chill, but for you, he could be a thrill.”


You retort: “My dear, It’s just your mind, no need to distress.”


But it draws closer, we are nearing the end of the thread.




I turn to you, eyes of dread, and at that moment the music stops.


You fade away, alone I stand. Your fingerprints linger on my skin, yet I know the next chapter won’t begin.


At bay, I glimpse the ghoul’s dance, he drools, and my heart takes a hit.


Everything turns dark, the echoes hark.


– I am left scarred –