With bated breath,
I lie in wait.
Waiting for the fire,
And brimstone to fall down on me,
And cover me in ash.
I lie under the cloak of night,
Brandishing my steel sword as if it were my soul.
My iron clad body,
As I wait for him.
The dragon of my fears.
With gleaming white fangs,
And a hard, cold stare
That burns flesh,
Like a winter's storm.
The dragon of the earth.
With such a brilliance,
That it is unmatched by all other creatures.
With the jaded soul,
Jagged scales and strong legs
That carry his agile frame effortlessly.
That is thought to be perfect and lethal;
Inescapable and bloodthirsty.
That I will strike down
With a swing of my sword
And I will slay
With a jab to his jaded heart.
So I continue to lie down
On the cold ground,
Waiting for him to come,
Waiting for him to show his face.
For when he appears and is quickly dead,
I will be crowned the king, the hero,
And King Arthur himself will bow down to me.
When I find that dragon...
"Jacob dear, it's time for dinner"
Well, he doesn't need to die tonight...
So I re-holster my plastic sword,
And remove my cardboard helmet;
Running out from under my pillow fort.
Running out of my world of make-believe.
Sprinting out of my world of imagination,
Filled with magic and quests,
Fire and brimstone.
My world that has been taken over by the bloodthirsty dragon,
That I will, tomorrow, slay.