image from devianart.com
poem sumitted to "1447 Your Choice" poetry contest, Brian Strand, sponsor, February 26, 2026
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The dragon lies in its burning remains~ a furnace of teeth snuffed out, its igneous breath hardening into black, sooty scales. You stand where the pyre was, your sword no longer shiny, dulled by ash and effort, a weapon that did its job asking for no acknowledgement, no revelry. This is how victory sleeps: not in banners or ballads, but in the quiet settling of smoke, in the way your hands shake when they have nothing left to hold. The villagers will come~ they always do to poke at the carcass, to marvel at the size of the dragon’s claws. But you know the truth: dragons are not slain by heroes. They are undone by the stubborn, by those who refuse to become kindling. And now, with the monster’s heat still radiating from the earth, you feel the oddest thing~ the absence of its roar, the space it leaves behind, like a missing tooth your tongue keeps finding. you may read the accompanying memoir vignette at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/victory_over_the_fire-breathing_dragon_13612
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