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Weakness

In this moment, I believe I am weak. 
I'm unfit to claim fitness in this fitment I call my physique. 
And on this night, I cannot sleep. 
For in my dreams, Mal appears on repeat, with a dagger that cuts deep. 
Her message relayed without speech, "your progeny is unfit for my seed".
God, it's as if no time has passed since that week. 
And oh the events that would proceed, could make a bold man meek.
But whatever it is about this you may think, you're mistaken indeed.
This is a ballad on the balance of self-esteem, not a soliloquy about poor pitiful me.
An antidote obtainable with feats, like summiting a peak, without the oxygen to breathe.
Frankly, I'm commenting on the activity of viability and its accompanying mystique.
And like life is brief, and such is the simile, so to will I be, explicit in my speech,
Ironically, and luckily for me, there were thirteen givers of sanguis.
So I mustn't behave solipsistically but channel this vulnerability, once met with disbelief,
Into a sword that remains sheathed, wielded by a beast with the mission of peace,
A man that I would be proud to meet.






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