A young girl sits,
On the peak of a great hill,
Under a star-filled sky,
Behind a creaky old windmill,
Following the trails of Dragons with her eyes.
She’s sweet and humble,
With strength and resolve,
If you fought with her dragon’s,
But, she wouldn’t let it last
Before you knew,
What ran you through.
She’d be right there –
Kicking your ass.
Like no every-day lass.
She’s called the Dragon warrior,
At least by the coroner.
For all the bodies he’s disposed,
Of the fallen, of her foes.
It causes some to stop and wonder,
Why dragon’s need their dazzling fires,
Or roars of screeching thunder?
Perhaps, when she retires.
If a war begins, by some human’s ire,
Mutual destruction would be assured,
In the midst of blood, steel and hellfire,
Neither’s future quite secured.
Thus, the Dragon’s, she defends.
By a stroke of insanity,
But also for humanity,
And to keep the drakes from death’s cold hands.
This poem is dedicated to my blogger friend, Dragon Warrior.