Once upon a time
there was a poet
who wrote and wrote.

Upon his wall,
above his table,
there hung a sword.

Now by that blade
a mighty dragon’s tail
had once been cut,

but that particular day
the poet found himself
in a rut.

His imagination
that had once spilled
the dragon’s blood,

was as dry as the eye
of a heartless man
in an emotional flood.

He stared at the paper
as white as snow
under his nose,

hoping by magic
black marks would appear
of verse or prose;

while above his head
there hung the sword
of his former glory.

So he took it down
and threw it out,
hoping to find a story.

Then an idea came,
like a firefly glowing,
in his head,

and he started to write
without sensing soon
he would be dead.

A tail-less dragon
with a vengeful soul
came at his door.

What happened next?
Well let’s just say,
the poet wrote no more.

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Cover Photo by Carlos Cram on Unsplash