Riding high on fragile wings I soar, far above the purple canyons below.
My body groans against a wayward wind as I seek out a mystical shore.
The dead dragons of yesterdays dreams drift in aimless circles like snow,
Their words, carried on wings of fire, obscure my vision, thus delaying my goal.

Still ahead, I thrust, avoiding more by chance than skill, their words dulling blow.
Ringing still in my ears are their morbid chants as they crash against invisible walls below.

Yet, one or two make their mark and drive their division deep into my sputtering heart.
Weaker and weaker I grow as I too join the dead dragons circling like dying snow.

J. Allen Wilson © 2003