The Dragons take
the nighttime with them.
Like loose needles they squeal and poke,
uncontrollably as her scales of red seep downwards,
beginning to form,
raw and turning the rose petal bleeds,
she is becoming

The dragon spine is covered now, not
With the paste of daylight,
but ink, blotted and scarred,
bandaged for a moment,
only its infancy keeps the
Dragon underneath with

Dark hair and
dark eyes
hardly relatable to the green and
blond, the Dragon comes to light,
unveiled and filled with snarling despondency.

Not with fancy nor delight
but as the rain comes,
the Dragon is cleansed,

As the filtering night seeps to blot out the
sun, dragon rays, not of color
but of ink spill open and the dragon
lets one
Tiny
Tear
Tear through tough flesh: the needle penetrates.

She has met the substance of the pen.