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Hidden away, concealed inside of an ancient craggy cavern. Coated with a lustrous shield and armed with a gaseous blade, always lighting up the way. While it is still a baby at heart, its mind is pulsating, brimmed with the sagaciousness of an owl, for it has huffed and puffed out smoky spheres while you were no one. You may scoff at it's authenticity, but it's electrifying descent from aloft will always prove you wrong.
Nestling away, like a bird in a tree, it has lost more than you've ever gotten, fallen farther than you've ever climbed, and seen more than you can handle. It's eyes reflect upon its weary and fruity past, for it has flown against the gale and through the calm. While it is tyrannizing with its immense magnitude and horny head, it is as gentle as an altruist, kind as your beating heart. It roars fiercely, but only to protect, barricade you with its menacing bellow. You may scoff at its authenticity, but a sonic whoosh through the sky will always prove you wrong.
Like a spotted, polychromatic serpent, it unrolls its forked tongue and displays its array of crescent spikes, for they cannot be concealed, they can only be wielded like a knife in the gloaming. Like a performer in a play, it waves its slinky wings through the wind and spins all around. As the Sun sits down and the Moon stands up, it rests its head against the cold and unforgiving stone. Unusual this may seem, it has felt much more pain, always being poked by the needle in the haystack, for it lives an agonizingly long time. You may scoff at it's authenticity, but a knock at the door will always prove you wrong.

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