Phantom

Marksman of the shadowed world,

born where the silent echoes curl.

Trigger breath steady and cold,

a phantom stitched in black and gold.

Headshot rhythm in the dead of night,

heartbeat synced to the scope’s red light.

Two to the chest, one to the sky—

I walk the line where the living die.

Camo soaked in the dust of war,

boots on the ground but wanting more.

They challenged the best, they fell unheard—

I speak in fire without a word.

One eye locked in the crosshair’s glow,

one eye open to the world below.

In the art of the hunt, I stay alive…

Alive…

ALIVE…

HOO‑HA.