The dragon spirals through the infinite shadow,
Devouring the soul, as goes the prediction.
But the beast was crazed and blind,
And inside its skull lies an affliction.
The sun, pierced by the peak of a mountain,
Rose and outshone the stars.
And reveals the lakes and rivers of honey;
An addiction is a jail with no bars.
So the dragon ran low of its reserves,
And tumbled out the sky and to the ground.
Shattered on the dirt it bellowed,
Thus the animal once revered, was no longer renowned.
The clock struck thrice, and the winter arrived.
Snow drove the dragon to a crawling speed,
Up the side of a mountain, to where the lava rests.
To where the dragon, for its sight, would plead.
In a flash, the mountain erupted,
And amongst the avalanche it thundered,
The dragon was buried between snow and rock,
Nature’s sarcophagus, older than every hundred.
But with the volcano uncovered,
No one was quite sure what to say,
Where had the lava spouted from?
And if so, where had it come to stay?
Instead, only the dragon had tasted,
As it had descended into the mountain’s heart,
That the lava was merely a sweet, nearly boiled tea,
And that would have torn its soul apart.