The Thirteenth of December

The words escape me even now,
But I will hold close the event
in shivering hands and with creased brow.
For smile or sobs, I’ve killed my lent.
It lays at my feet, cold and bent.
I scan the distance for a sign.

The doubt had split its chimerous maw
to start its wheedling once again,
and seek out a species of awe:
one that is bred from naïve pain.
It cycled, yes, but would not wane.
Wrapped ‘round the soul; a greedy vine.

Its whining was not alien;
Eight seasons it had bit my side
and turned my thoughts against me. Then
I knew I would need to abide,
and grew a callous ‘round what pride
had not been swallowed by that whine.

But when one’s foe is in their head,
a disadvantage does appear.
The network of the mind is read,
the way to solace made unclear.
The shapeless doubt is always near,
to fill the gaps with its malign.

Until this day, I paid no mind.
I let it rip whate’er it chose.
For fighting, I was disinclined.
Instead, I rode out all its blows.
Its life was drawing to a close,
but knew I not the dagger—mine.

After it fell, I could not breathe,
and stumbled round, not yet awake.
But when the blade went in the sheath,
I felt an interesting ache.
That’s when my hands began to shake.
The beast, in death, was made benign.

The quickness took me in a way
that shocked my mind unto its core.
Could it have ended in a day?
I felt this weren’t the epic chore
I had long feared. But then I bore
a stranger grin. And now I shine.

I watch all four horizons like
a madman, with my broad-toothed smile.
I’ve ended six year’s hunger strike,
and now I’m cheerful for a while.
Until the answer’s final mile
I’ll gaze some more, and I’ll feel fine.