The raging of this lumbering beast
keeps trying to weaken my resolve,
tearing holes in the fabric
of the cloak worn in vain.
Potions, weapons, and strategy
seem to work not at all
against this shameful terror.
Only sheer willpower and spatial awareness
seem to do any damage to this menace
and yet it shall not die.
Immortal as some things are,
this bane of my confidence, my sense of worth
shall but fall into a slumber
when defeat stalls its advance.
for the wall of self-control to crumble
under the stress of the heavy burden
that life and society enforce.
© Johanna Fugitt 2016