The Knight and its blade

I lay here, the sunless field of self doubt eating away at the thin, fleshless limb that wields a shallow case. its frame, feeble and drenched, its gaunt and wafer-thin pages written in blood. Its own words speak from the anemic mind, frames formed perfectly from ones nightmares. These gelid winds demands that this selfish mind falls over the ridge, down into the waters of temptation, but a knight knows better than to give into the dark. Instead I bring out this blade, its light burning away the shades and demons that procure the shadows of ones self hate. I wield this sword, the same one I have used for countless other battles, I force its blade forward, gripping onto the hilt as the devil beckons me toward death. I run, seductive frames shouting my name. I am ignorant to their calls, my eyes are set on another prey of the night. I sprint now ready to face off the devil that floats before me. its malicious smile speaking of pure hate and resentment. Quick like a wolf, steady as an ox, strong like a dragon, I pierce my blade through the devils mind, and formulate this hollow work of art, for ones own weapon can take many forms when speaking from the depths of ones dreams...The devil has won, its song engulfs me, the words have been written. Now I contemplate, was the devil...me this whole time? Or was I simply lost in another meaningless war against my sub conscious... my blade has ran out of ink, the story ends...for now.