<s>[INST] Write a non-rhyming poem with strong alliteration and where every other line favors words that start with vowels or consonants in the combined style of Mark Strand and Elizabeth Bishop about a man who was injured in an accident and is wandering around in a state of shock while seeking help but seems to be invisible to everyone he approaches until he finally realized he didn't survive the accident and is in fact a ghost [/INST] In the shadow of shattered steel, the stranger stumbled, seeking solace,
Under an ashen sky, an eerie echo of events unfolded.
Battered, bruised by brutal fate, bewildered and bewildering,
Every attempt to entreat, to encounter - ignored, evaded.

Grim and gaunt, the ghostly ground gave no comfort or compass,
In this odd, otherworldly odyssey, where once was warmth, wistful whispers.
Cruel cacophony of confusion, he cried for connection, for caring,
Urgent undercurrents of unspoken understanding, unanswered.

Manifold memories marred by melancholy, he marched, musing,
Alternating between agony and an almost apathetic acceptance.
Destiny deemed him a drifting wraith, a wandering whisper, a witness,
Isolated in the interstices of existence, the intersection of invisible.

Through twisted trees and tortured terrain, he traversed tirelessly,
Over open, opaque oceans of uncertainty, unfathomable and unforgiving.
Fearful phantoms flickered and fluttered in the fickle, fleeting light,
Ebbing, ever evasive, ethereal emotions engulfed him, escaping explanation.

A sudden shiver, the stark, staggering truth struck him like slivers of ice,
Impaled upon the infinite, the insurmountable: he was immaterial, impalpable.
No more man, but a memory, a mirage, a mote in the merciless maelstrom,
Unraveled, unanchored, untethered in the vast void of vanishing vibrations.

In the cold crepuscular chiaroscuro, the curtain closed on his corporeal chapter,
And he, an apparition adrift, surrendered to the silent, somber sanctuary of shadows. </s>