The Dragon

A dragon without her rider. Inspired vaguely by Eragon/Pern

 The dragon spreads her golden wings,
Basks in the light of dawn,
A glittering light upon her scales,
That calls to the unwary.

Her head is raised to the mountaintops,
As she saunters from her lair,
Her heart alive with a burning want,
For what she does not know.

The landscape slides beneath her now,
A blur of brown and white,
And she remembers the friend long lost,
The aching of her wounded heart.

Her cry echoes in the valleys,
An awful, mournful sound,
The ground rushes up to meet her,
Solid reassurance.

The light is hidden by the clouds,
She curls into herself,
A gentle rain falls to her wings,
Their golden light extinguished.

Her tears, those golden pearls,
Fall upon the moss,
And any life the water dost touch,
Is strangled with her loss.

The hunters now approach her,
Weapons in their hands,
She lies still on the deadened moss,
Glad to give them a kill.

Her eyes grow dim at last,
The fire leaves her soul,
And finally she is at peace,
With her beloved once again.

The dragon no more will spread her wings,
Nor call upon the dawn,
For the humans were afraid of her,
And now her kind is gone.

Reviews

[Kris]

You know, for being a poem about a dragon I feel somewhat disappointed. I was waiting for some burnination! You could make this poem about almost anything with some slight tweaking, and that's something of a tragedy. This is a melancholy, deflated poem that sorely wants some excitement. Your visuals aren't necessarily bad but aren't necessarily good either. Hum-drum is how I would describe it. But take heart, you actually USE visuals, which puts you above about 85 to 90% of the writers on this website.

Anywho, I challenge you to rewrite this and to energize it. Drink a can of Vault or something and rewrite it. It'd be cool if there was some burninating of the country side.

Cheers.