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Rated: E · Poetry · Fantasy · #2123446
A poem about sketching a dragon.
Surrounded by art books,
black charcoal pencils
pastels, and vibrant hues,
strewn round about.
I shove them aside
and blowing a small breath,
I find a clean pristine page
and began to sketch
an old friend I’ve met
often and only
in the land
of dreams.
In a myriad
of light and shadow
I shade the flaky scales,
blue veins forming in the
pink membranes of his wings,
soft as the underbelly of a newborn kitten.
Whiskers sprout from warty moles.
Sharpened caws, moss encrusted,
spring forth
from where once was nothing
at all.
His hot breath singes
the edges of the page
that has given him life,
now charred brown and crinkly
under my skilled fingers.
I begin to sketch rapidly
before it is all burnt away.
That is always the danger
in drawing dragons.
As if rudely wakened
from a hibernation
that has lasted too long,
shadows pool underneath
as he turns his hoary head
and warily trains
one cataract-riddled eye on me.
I shiver in its
yellow melon,
hollow and depth-like
all at the same time,
as he slowly unfurls his mammoth wings
With sound akin to an oncoming freight train,
he flaps those wings,
like a sailboat testing the wind,
and I watch him escape
to some ancient moore,
so enchanted
and far away
that even my pencil
I’ll miss you,
old friend.
Perhaps we can meet again
when I’m brave enough
to risk sketching
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