At Dusk, A Dragon

She stoops over the cement, drowning in a

puddle of burnt tar that oozes, leaking from her

claws in a torrential downpour of poisoned

taffy, a trap for those who lurk in the shadows.     

She is a child’s chalk drawing sprung to life.

Each scale lovingly etched, each feathered wing

a masterpiece of youth’s spirited imagination.

Created by tiny hands that wished only the best for her.

But those wishes turned to fear, and the fear

turned to hate, and the hate festered.

Squeezed the wonder from the golden hearted child, the hate

kicked her, beat her, imprisoned her, sang the

Devil’s song in her ear, an endless rhythm

of “evil”, “worthless”, “unwanted”, “monster”.

A song that pierced her, a song

that she accepted as truth, until she knew

nothing but anger. Each breath a spew of

poison. Each heartbeat the stab of a knife.

Each tear a drop of acid raining down on

that golden hearted child who gave her life.

That evil hearted child who left her to bear

the burden of sorrow’s aching centuries,

that beat out every spark of hope burning  

in her heart, until all she had left to give was hate.

How can something so beautiful be filled with such sorrow?