the thing
made a fist of fire
squeezed the world into ash
while the ghosts of the living
watched the ocean of flame
build more waves,
taller and stronger,
begging collapse.
the crash refused to come,
the end of things demanded
a hero, and so one came
in armor like all the rest,
carrying a sword like all the rest
that he guided into the heart
of the mistakes and manipulations of a man,
until another dragon
was dead.
the ground
caught the beast
but could not hold it —
soil’s strength had been carried away
by poison’s fingers, templed around corn,
protector of meals,
making a cloud of dust
where the earth was
where the earth was
the dragon is dead
and so is the ground that was to be his grave
that was to feed us, and
that is revealed
to be a far more dangerous beast
without a heart to stab, no throat
to cut, no fight
to be had.
no war against a battlefield can be won,
there is no killing the rain
or executing the wind.
the corpse of the winged snake waits,
demise making its listening immortal.
whisper what you know into its gray ears, and
the words might be rendered into prayer,
those water bringers,
those yaps at the dead.