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The Dragon Park

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  • The Dragon Park

    The Dragon Park

    A boy died here last night, at the Dragon Park.
    From the darkened waters, his soul has not returned.
    Seems he followed a soccer ball to his eternal destiny.
    Today, not even an utterance.

    the dragon is harmless, silent and still,
    he watches all that pass by with his beady eyes.
    He is crayon green with red forever flames circling from his mouth.
    He is serpentine, but motionless.

    Little Konstan and I come here just to look,
    look out across the sculpted lake, into the pleasant sky,
    and to feel, feel the wind off the water,
    feel the sun upon our skin.

    Konstan climbs the steps to his “house.”
    There is a light there that concerns him a great deal.
    “Is it on? Is it off?” He asks.
    He sees the fisherman and asks, “Where are the fish?”

    Mansions sit along the shore of the haunted waters.
    The dragon displays a tranquil vigilance,
    charged to protect them from the filth that might wonder in
    from the indiscriminate freeway, as the boy did.

    I wonder if their residences feel safer with a dragon to protect them.
    Really, I wonder if the dragon even would,
    for he has seen their slabs poured over the trees.
    He was there when they cut up the forest.

    The great birds once came here.
    They built homes of sticks and littered trash.
    People came to gaze with admiration.
    They watched too as townhomes took their place.

    They are lovely, drawing the lust of your vision
    like a temptress, a mistress, beauty, but lies.
    Beneath a concrete square lie the remains
    of a once perfect square of natural earth.

    The dragon knows and feels the guilt,
    for he has seen that tragedy too,
    and yet, he has been forged the same,
    forged by the unnatural, made soulless and fateless.

    Yes, he was framed within that furnace too
    by something less divine, not the true spirit.
    I’d bet if he could weep, he would,
    for even the lake is false, dug into what should truly be.

    He must crave to shed his iron skin and become a real beast,
    to see with true eyes and feel with real skin,
    to swim below the haunted waters and feed upon unlucky fish,
    to crawl upon the shore and bask in the sun.

    Perhaps he could have saved that boy,
    or devoured him in nature’s savage way.
    He shall never be.
    He is damned to watch the dying spirit forever.

    But we just came to watch, watch people on small boats go by,
    watch them touch the dragon’s nose and laugh.
    Konstan wonders, “Where does the dragon sleep at night?”
    I answer simply, “Right there.”

    Last edited by bdowning77380; 01-06-2015, 01:21 PM.