Turn, and Greet the Dragon; 'a.k.a. Battle of Self'

My laptop apparently just died, so I apologize in advance for the less polished format . . . I just punched this out on my phone.

Turn and Greet the Dragon: a.k.a. 'Battle of the Self'

Note: Please go to the following link for inspiration- https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=ri-euoXzpIA

~ ~ ~
‘Leather and lace-
Leather and lace.’
The mantra whirled inside my brain . . .
And I swallowed, throat tight.
Black, leather boots,
Skittered along the path, ahead-
I looked up the rickety staircase in front of me . . .
Ascended without looking back-
Leaving the impression behind me.

I was already there . . .
Remembering it all, starkly.

~ ~ ~

'Darkness draws my curtains close-
Shaded by the velvet masses, alone.
I turn over in my bed.

Who am I?
Who lives behind the curtained fire poster, hidden in the depths of this old house? I think.
Nothing to be seen, or heard has been present.'

~ ~ ~

Whoever is behind . . .
Draws her shaky breaths around her,
Labored gasps of pain-
A skeleton that lives within a carcass?
Perchance-
A mere embodiment of life's form . . .

A snaking hand, reaches out, shakily, from the shell,
And pulls the curtains to close,
Then turns over, in its bed . . .

'Who am I?
Whispers this tortured soul,
Who is that skeletal, bone-thin, ugly sepulcher?
So unlike me . . . a stranger, for sure.'

~ ~ ~

Who is she?
Whose eyes do not swim with emotion,
Who sheds not a tear . . .
Whose hands are not flesh-
To reach out and hug a needy friend,
But for which, instead, it's own flesh is spent . . .

'Who am I,
Who whispers, in the dead of night,
Waiting for someone to hear?
Listlessly, in loss of life, turning around her bedcovers,
Creating whirlwinds in the bed,
With everything, strangely enough-
But emotion?'

~ ~ ~

Who is she,
Who, dazed and lackluster,
Has gone to bed, and-
unconsciously turned out the lights?

Who awakes the next morning, head dizzy,
Because she has not slept?
For whom days and night have become one term,
For her own light, it seems . . .
Has burnt.

The dragon of darkness rears its ugly head,
Spinning its torrid blankets around-
It's waiting spindle-
It's victim, laying prone in the bed,
In the house which no one has seen to check in on-
Because of the darkness which has masked its panes . . .
For several years-

Lights out.

Lest known, the sepulcher that lives inside it,
Living, beating heart, veins crossing, beneath flesh-

A human carcass . . .
A skeleton with skin draped over its strong frame.

A demon.

Who is it, that lives within the chambers of that forgotten house?
Who is the self?
Is it a dragon inside a bed, that visits you at night-
Or does it stay with you, through the day and night?

Where is the dragon?
Has the house you've passed by, so many times-
really been left out-
Alone?

Or, is there someone living inside the house . . .
Is that house, even your own?

Who, and where is the dragon to the self?

Who are you . . .
Do you dare to enter into that dark house?
Dare to pull aside the velvet four-poster-
To see who, or what, is behind it?
Will you scream, or cry when you see it?
Will you run away, or face it?

~ ~ ~

Making my way slowly into the room, I stepped over the threshold.
Shakily, I reached out one of my hands to the mast-
I pulled the drapes aside . . .

And I stared . . .

What the hell was I looking at?
I shook my head for . . .
It just didn't make any sense-

But of course, I knew what it was (I must here insert laugh)
I decided to call it Dragon . . .
A demon for which I've created a name,
I laugh, oh, laugh at the irony . . .
Of my own, dry, ill-tasting sense mind.

I unsheathed the sword from my bootstrap,
And turned to greet the dragon . . .
My own Self.