Thursday, January 20, 2011


A caged dragon will die, quickly
for it feeds on life.

To capture them is not the problem.
You cannot keep them alive.

You cannot watch them die
without dying yourself
a bit each time.

He had caught many dragons.
He had watched many die.

The more he had caught, the better he'd got
at catching them. More fame and fortune came
as stories of his prowess grew and spread.
Inside he was, more and more, dead.
Dead with dragons caged.
Dead heart in his ribs caged.
How can one stop his fame, his name, his path to the grave?
Each step passed past and forwards,
before and behind,
connected and etched in pain.

Wealth beyond count or measure
in room after room, in vaults,
in castle and keep,
in banks and warehouses.

Empty heart, walking corpse on verge of collapse.
Only the hint of a gasp of a spark of the glory
in a dream soon to be extinguished
as the last and oldest of the dragons
laid down amidst his treasures and fortune,
having caught all the others,
having won all the glory,
having doomed and destroyed all he
knew, valued, and loved.

He won his loss fully.

His fight done, his heart battered and broke,
he ascended his rightful throne.

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