The Dark Poet

A waking up, do I, Dark Poet, need to shake my creature core from sheltered sleep. A seed has taken root as bitter weed that sprouts from disappointments buried deep inside me, where a well-hid wild thing with armored skin lifts groggy head to breathe. No fire escapes its mouth, for it must cling to courtesy although its blood should seethe. If roused, the beast could overstep its bounds and though I’ve tamed it well, I sometimes hear in dusky dreams its melancholy sounds. Before the dawn its murmurs disappear. On bitter weed subsists my dragon child. Oh, should I let it rest. . . or wake the wild? For Irma's Dark Poet contest