The Dragons of Eden

There are baby dragons lurking in every niche of my life,
lurching out and flaring off like roman candles,
bat’s ears and tails pointed at my thoughts:
one long accusation.

The bones they leave behind hardly rattle in their chains,
scuttling mouse bones trying to put up a good haunt,
hurling crumbs around like micropoltergeists:
they terrified me.

I left my thoughts unattended and they stole them.
The games I used to play they unpretended,
and hid in my attic thumping all night long.
I almost recall their names.

The worst least, no measely meercat,
this miniature lion chases wildebeest. And catches.
He scared the moonlight in his prowl,
looking for something to disembowel.

Their mythology filled volumes
while mine’s a mere margin’s mark.
My birth sign’s no natal star,
but a good natal asterisk will do.

When they come looking to devour
they’ll find my taste has gone to sour.
Their shadows tower – yes, but in a minute hour
they’ll find they’ve lost their grip on power.

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