scribbling her scales

she tries these wayward voices
on for size, pens up and down
the ivories to see the light
and seize the dawn. she

cries when the words won’t
come, when they flit and fray
and tease her from the
shadows. she’s gone

the way of dragon skin and
longing, calling herself sane.
calling herself torn. small
-ing her self. she’s

trained and rained and tamed
her own veins to spill with ink
and smoke. she’s flat broke,
but tilted toward sky.


Written for Poetic Asides



This entry was posted in dragon poems, poetic asides poems and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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