by Chris G. Vaillancourt
Shhh. Tell no-one. The dragons are sleeping
like baby lizards in their caves. Breathless from
a day of pillage. Restful after a time of destruction.
Somewhere, on the other side of the hill, a boy
is playing in the woods. Caressing his manhood,
he becomes a symbol of self appreciation.
Be quiet. Don't disturb the boy in his game.
It is his only means of achieving satisfaction.
A reaction would disturb the molecules from
their expected conclusion.
The boy does not realize how close he is
to poetical danger. If he awakens the
dragons, he awakens his death.
Shhh. Tell no-one. The dragons are dreaming
of future conquests. Illusionary REM's of human
body parts dancing in their heads. Helpless
after a day of mass frustration. Hopeless
after a time of complete desolation.
The boy is finished his game. He smiles
to himself at his clever disguises. Yesterday he
was a soldier in the war of indifference. Today
he is a hero, a legend in his own mind.
He screams in abandoned pleasure. He
yells because he can. Racing through the woods
until he comes upon the entrance to a cave.
Takes a breath, than slowly enters in.
The dragons are no longer sleeping. They are
preening their scales in preparation. Their red
soul-less eyes look at the boy. The boy, with
his brown empty eyes looks at the dragons.
None of them make a move.
Each of them recognize the emptiness of the other.
Last updated August 18, 2011