Tuesday, April 13, 2021


 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.

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