He does not dwell beneath the sky
In a distant land or astral plane.
No smoke to sight or bursts of flame
Its greed and wrath and pride
Had nested deep and dark inside
Projecting terror from afar
As monsters and madness makes its wont
Its victim has no blade or bow
No hero’s blood or fable to show
Nor is myth seen or judged to be
And in that place beneath our face
In the hands that shake
And the loss of grace
Lies a Dragon.
In the shades of strength
And the pits of power
How those smiles and sighs
Looks of relief, and faces of regard
And new scaled and smoking form flows.
By J.W.H. Hobbs