Poems are a changing thing and are at worst a dragon.
Come to consume thoughts and drag words like virgins to the stake.
when I was a witchy thing, black wings spread over in grief.
I began to breath fire from depths of pain that no longer
We're hidden- safe.
What a beast! Her eyes hot and tongue sharp and beauty unfolding
With each rip from a torn soul, oh! And to me, the greater the passion
The more a story is told.
So it seems dark embers stir this creatures heat,
While thundering for meaning as
Joy to love, like a monster my dragon was only
Trained to eat.
Molting form a maidens horror purity was up to fight,
Against the memories and faded- incomplete prose
That only taunted the will to abide.
Writing only when voice can not answer
and my heart offends- the more it bends
To serve the dragon's fire.