Regrets of an Old Dragon
I hated errant knights
the most.
“Sir Dragon, prepare to die!”
Yeah, sure.
I’d knock them from their steed
to spare the horse,
Then blast them just enough
to make them scream and sizzle
in their shells,
like chestnuts.
Witches and wizards had more
gristle in the meat,
So I withheld the fire and
gnawed them
at my leisure.
So, yeah, OK,
I guess I overdid it
in those
Golden Days of Yore.
But now, no one comes
to see me,
at all.
Maybe they don’t
remember that I’m lying here,
alone with all my treasure.
Maybe they’re too busy.
Or, maybe,
they just don’t care.
This poem appeared in the Spring 2014 issue of Illumen.