A Dragon of Dialogues

It’s the smallest of
pebbles
that
make a
first run
for the gates,

stirring
snow lying
in wait

to make

a monster
of
its own
malleable
strength.

Avalanche endowed by
momentum,
pouring over
cliffs as
if its
redemption
laid downward.

A monologue
of mutiny
juxtaposing cruelty
(at a minimum,
loose
manifestos served);

crown jewel
of
any dangerous
time.

All these mountains ranges,
their gaseous ice
below,

towns
and their valleys,
market stalls and alleyways

won’t be discernible
from blankets eternal,

You’ll
hear only dragons
sleeping between
the
aftermath’s pines.

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