When dragons die (poem)

When dragons die there is a moment

of silence, somewhere in the heart of a cave

a darkened rock-lined womb of tree roots and wet earth

when dragons die there is an emptiness in the weed-dressed corners of cloudy lakes.

In absence of dragons there is no peace of mind

for those few who lent a mind to them

and when dragons die it tastes like bittersweet tears and blood when you try to understand

why some metal-mawed monsters with minds behind the wheel

that do not care for the echoing heartbeat that responds to fantasy

sought to rid the world of them, because there wasn't enough room.

Because we have a right to know.

Because we must be rational.

when dragons die they fill in the beautiful blanks on the edge of the map and erase the warning writing, and pat themselves on the back

and auction off the hoarde that was

so dear to the heart of a shy and gold-loving monster.

When dragons die, we are lost to ourselves

with no great creatures to attempt to grow up to the shoulder-height of

with no majesty to cast shadows against the sunrise

it's empty now to the ones who care enough

to get up early, with quiet souls to respect the silence of a loch or mountain

but now...

when dragons die there is no reason to get up at all.