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The dragon is not a beast,

He is not the stuff of legend, 

A monster, a destroyer of livelihoods. 

He is not a torrent of devastating flame, 

Nor a flurry of claws and fangs. 

He does not tower over elevated foliage, 

He is incapable of striking down towers, 

Or fixing cowering kings with a reptilian stare

As he lays waste to their domain. 

He does not leave gashes in the clouds with great clawed wings, 

Diving and evading and elevating

His honed talons cannot slice through steel

Nor his curling horns impale and dismember.

His fangs are not dripping with murderous intent,

He does not sleep on a pile of foolish bones. 

His scales do not glisten and flash, 

For he has none. 

He sleeps on a bed, not of bones but of linen. 

His wings wrap around him like blankets, 

Limp and soft.

His horns gently press into the chest of the one cradling him.

His only victims are nightmares. 

Hi, I'm Laney! 18, BiAce, She/Her
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