A Tryst With Fantasy

He's closed the blinds. His twilight dawns. A midday reverie. Within his mind, a vision spawns, awash in mystery. * A levee bursts, torrents crash free— a castle from a dream. Atop his throne, court bent on knee, all hail: "Long live the King!" * Then suddenly, the hall doors boom. "A beast! A beast has come!" As herald wails, and dread consumes: "The end! The end!" they run. * And as he flees, all whimsy gone, an echo beckons high. Of beating wings, a chilling song, a drumbeat from the sky. * He steps toward, all nerves afrost— imagination wild. A turret falls, asunder tossed— both home and hearth defiled. * The creature belts—a savage shriek!— black shadow borne aloft. The king plants firm, through chattered teeth. You coward! he self-scoffed. * A gusty gale, uproots his crown. Gold ringing on the floor. Stale, putrid breath, comes choking down. He'll hide his gaze no more! * As four eyes meet, red versus blue, stark mirrors of two souls. His greatest fear, now clear as truth: A wyvern is his foe! * One leath'ry wing, comes slashing in. Its talon rife with flesh. Unsheathed his blade, a slash akin, their armaments enmesh. * The monster lands, around it whips— forked tongue a slath'ring sight. As from barbed tail, vile acid drips. One prick—a deadly bite. * Brass hilt so slick, in sweat-drenched glove, his lifeline sharp and true. 'Gainst rabid jaws, frothing above— a witch's bile abrew! * A hack a thrust, a dash a dive. One slip and he's devoured. A lunge a snap, rampaging eyes! A fiend by fury soured. * When by mere fluke—or was it fate?— King's cleaving motion fast. Condescending, full of hate, the wyvern breathes its last. * Like Heracles, the labor won. Hallucination?— No! A vict'ry yelp, The deed is done. Now off to sleep he goes. * She tucks him in and gently from his fingers peels away, A plastic sword, a pot-lid shield—which fantasy today? So free—those fleeting days when visualization knows no end. Her precious child, who's yet to learn, his kingdom's "just pretend".