Sleeping Dragons

It starts with an invitation -- the opportunity

To try and find words

That I haven't the right sort

Of tongue to speak.

It's like attempting to fly

Without possessing the perfect pair 

Of feathered wings.

Clouds are meant for angels, so

I must remain here

Amongst the soil and the sidewalks.

In this crooked game, even kings

Slip between the cracks.

The alchemist can only

Choose to save their self.

It is a quiet, nonetheless,

Vicious bloodbath of a war.

And, like all such affairs,

Mostly waged in shadows [ the mind],

Secreted behind closed doors

And clenched teeth.

Dragons no longer lurk in caves.

They dwell in our bellies,

Still guarding sacred, glistening treasures.

Asleep, but breathing fire from

The depths of our core.

I suppose I've known all along --

These words will never be mine,

Anymore than they are truly yours.

...Someone else holds the strings.

In our frantic arrangement of accumulations,

We pray not to be noticed --

Yet reek of desperation and confusion.

Each day I silently covet the

Immeasurable wealth beneath my sleeping dragon.

Soon, I will breathe fire, too.