Monday, September 11, 2017

The True Conflict

The dragon coils at the spine to dine
On all the darkness that you want to eat
To breathe its fires, incinerate, defeat
The innocent--it's part of its design
To eat up souls and so thereby refine
The rocky paths down which we fall, retreat--
The wings are hurricaning with each beat
The failure of ourselves and our design.

I stab the serpent through its silver eye
To calm the storm within and set the path
For me to take away from all the blame
The fires once made--and so I, joyful, die
To this cold life and give my soul the bath
It needs to rinse off its resentful shame.

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