The Dragon by: T. Pugsley

Tessa Pugsley

Oh Dragon, tell me how you sleep

Within your glittering, piled hoard,

Does not the bitter, biting cold

Into your glittering body creep?

 

How can you stand to spend your days

Upon your petty, shallow treasure?

Do not reflections pierce your gaze

And drive away all chance of pleasure?

 

For, sure, the yellow shining light

Is quite a feast before your eyes,

But don’t these jewelèd façades rise

To haunt your dreams all through the night?

 

And when you settle down to bed

Within you gilded, golden room,

Is not the scraping like the dead

Who wake and whisper in the tomb?

 

And whilst you sit amongst your trove,

As cold as ice and hard as stone,

Do not you feel yourself alone,

With all your trappings, but no love?

 

And empty cups thro’ empty air

Echo as they’re kicked apart.

Oh, is it not like in your lair,

The beating of your hollow heart?

 

And when they come and call you great

For all the treasure that you own,

Do you have no urge to atone,

Or is the greed in you innate?

 

Or is their praise for you enough,

When they bow down and cheer your name,

To make you, as with dead skin, slough

Your guilt and every trace of shame?

Categories: Gallery

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