I am but my own foe.
A mere shadow of poignant speculation.
A culmination of nightmares,
An ugly tainting facade of fantasies.
A palatable fluid, ample to make one vanish.
A perpetual glamour of wondrous thoughts.
A package of slain ambitions.
A puzzle, static, unresolved.
Uncertain of genesis,
A mystery unfit to resolve.
I am but my own Frailty.
A dream not to cherish, but to disregard.
I am, or am I?