I am the ink that refused to dry, A lanky frame beneath a hollow sky. Not the hero of the isle, but a jagged twin, With a jagged mouth and a rot within.

I dwell where the static meets the floor, A distorted memory behind a heavy door. I am the draft that the ink spilled o'er, A tall, dark stain of "something more."

I have no pupils to see your dread, Just empty voids in a blackened head. I seek the one who took my place, While I rot away with a shattered face.

Who am I?