The small, still fear that creeps against the still of the night
It reaches the tendrils of its melancholy, its paralysis into the soul
It asked the questions that dredge up emotion and terror that harken back
Into the dead past where mild devils, bereft of potency but full of vigor
Speak words intent on consumption and decay, regardless of the truth of it all
But those demons, they know. They know the words to say, to inflict entropy and fear
They know how to debilitate, to render the ambitions void
To pull the soul into the abyss of failure and resentment
It is the burden of the strong to bear this
It is the furrow that is to be plowed with the marrow and the bone
Those timid souls who look on from the outside scoff and revel in their mediocrity
They sneer as if the path is simple, as if it has no weight
They posture their simple jealousy
Never seeing the creeping doubt
The seething fear and blood
They do not know the terrible glory of plunging into the darkness
Of grasping the hell and torment of impending failure and doom
And wrestling from it a semblance of peace, purchased with blood and tears and sleeplessness
And thus, the gladiator finds himself alone, though the crowd revels and fawns
And slaps his back in cheap camaraderie
But he remains alone.
