Dragons originate
in cones of fire,
hang lit and glowing
low in evening sky.
Some people
fancy themselves
warriors on
worn, dank couches.
Others reach
into their chests
to pull actual weapons from
long concealment.
The air
becomes so warm
no one will be able to recall
any dream ever again.
Ash on every tongue
except for those
used to licking
boots and gold;
their starvation
will take
a little longer
to commence.
If there is an Angel,
no one will know it
until its last trumpet echoes
are almost faded out.
As for our children,
they will surrender
themselves to fire,
to ice, to flood,
to earth cracking,
to the ravenous
remainder of us, and some will
certainly die. Some will no doubt live:
learn to ride dragons,
how to bury the past,
how to bury the dead
so they stay dead
and do not come back:
no resurrection,
no glory for what’s gone.
No letting it up from its grave.
