The Mark of a Fighter

I dreamt of the dream weaver,
spinning its treasured dream.
On delicate and endless wings,
on tremulous words rising.

My wounds are deep and self-carved,
like a virus attacking itself blind,
and alone in a sea of blood and cell.
A painter in a wave of canvas and frothing paint.
Shadowy monsters stalking in the shallows with teeth
lathered in brushes and vinegar.
Still does not compare to the dwelling, seething, inner-beast,
inside the picture dreamers core.
A writer curled away in a quiet dusty place,
finding words perfect and wrong,
to mark a moving picture in your minds eye.
A filmmaker watching living breathing art
bend and sway like a long tree,
on some blurred blue sky on a yellow hill.
They have the monster inside of them.
No legs, eyes, fingers, no form for it to acquire,
just sound, cruel nagging sound.
Beyond a banshee or harp played by ghouls
in some underground, underworld fantasy.
Doubt incarnate, a stoic figure with a hideous visage,
and perfect tongue.
Great at lying, speaking, talking, whispering, yelling,
convincing, debating, rationalizing, and hushing,
the doubt inside the artist.
We all bear the mark of the inner critic,
it tans us, beats us wild,
there is no cure, elixir, potion, ether,
only scars wild and vibrant throughout our inner skin,
like a wolf was always there.

I dreamt of the dream weaver,
spinning its treasured dream.
On scarred and endless wings,
on tremulous words rising.