The Dragon

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

Change.

And new scaled and smoking form flows.

By J.W.H. Hobbs