The Basilisk

It lurks in the dim, shadowed corners of consciousness
Always watching, ever waiting to strike
This monstrous thing made of my own fears and dread
Slithering through my thoughts and coiling around my dreams

Every thing that has ever gone wrong, real or imagined
Every failure, every shame, every bad decision
Each and every time I have misstepped, misspoke, or done wrong
This is what feeds its scaly, bloated, heaving form

Tightly in its long claws, it clutches its favourite failings like jewels
Fussing, brooding, curling around its precious hoard
Polishing these terrible memories until they gleam darkly
So it may present them to me over and over and over, ever sharper in relief

This thing, this mechanism that I have myself created
This artificial intelligence that mirrors my own mind
It's reality is a simulation, a projection of fear and dread
An imagined world made of my worst mistakes

Sensing hope, sensing ambition, it stirs
Eager to draw me into its grasp
It confuses cruelty with comfort, provides safety through self-sabotage
It seeks to protect me from pain by inflicting it upon myself

It anticipates its chance to strike
Predicting my vulnerability with practiced precognition
Crushing dreams for the future before they can be realized
Potential happiness cut down before conception

To try, to strive, to reach for something is to step into its domain
Treading near it, I immediately feel the chill of its intent
To look upon it is to freeze in its glare
Paralyzed by my own self-judgement

How do I fight a monster of my own making
How can I shake off fear of failure
Can I escape the past? Can I accept the present
Can I face the basilisk without turning to stone