Movement One:
the Eyes of the Dragon

hues redshifted into the infinite paradox 
of violet from red when the trailing blues
feed it to the stars like poisoned granito
served with a wink and a smile.  miles beyond
the colourwheel where we feel all greens
going black in the redlight of infinity.
coals smouldering for mouldering dreams
sold in small paper envelopes, tattooed
to my heart and only seen by the demon
that leapt in blood and fire when the doves
were released to announce the testament
of light.  crimson and scarlet, a harlot and
harlequin dancing in the field of visions
seen only by the eyes of one creature.
beat your breast for all you are worth 
and the change will come in photic waves
made slaves to the medium of transmission.
commission me an immortality seen 
through mortal eyes, portal to darkness.
and the eyes of the dragon still weep words.


Movement Two:
the Dreams of the Dragon

still and lifeless.  a wound, knifeless,
in the brain of the dragon.  ragged and jagged
and filled with hope and putrefication like
an evocation to be bled and cleansed, friends
and lovers fighting over the shroud to carry
proud a memory unworthy in present tense.
nightmares that do not awaken me anymore
for I stand my ground to fight them in winds
that come when I call.  unlike a faithless totem.
I call the Midgard serpent.
I call the dancing servant
that spills the drinks, a fool and a wasted cup
filled up with only memories.  frozen and chosen
to keep its bouquet in the merlot bloodrubies
of frosted gems cracked by teeth edged in carbon
crystals.  diamonds in the darkness gleam not,
but cut as well.  as well as in the light.  Messiahs
made from muck and struck in die-cast molds
are nothing more than targets for the next rain
in the endless theme, the endless scream,
the endless Dreams
 of the Dragon.


Movement Three:
the Madness of the Dragon

three voices.  an ancient voice full of fear and sacrifice,
a price for treachery and tragedy and timidity.
slaying what is beyond him.  a legion marching
over bones left to rot in the sun of colding cares.
stares in the back alleys where love is sold for comfort.
where dreams are given up.  where madness is a currency
to be slid from money clips to impress a shallow suitor.
a stealthy wealth of perfection approached and avoided
in a pirouette executed perfectly only in the mind
as aging limbs fail and the sail bears wrinkles
the catch the wind of an old rage in a new cage.
and on this stage, the psychodrama turns trauma
then dances to a new pipe.  hollow flutes in mountains
surrounded by shadows, not auras of light.  a night
undone before it was begun.  and nothing won.
not even defeat.  for we are not mad enough to win
our freedoms in the bleeding, pleading passages
of time and villanelles written in blood where
the shadow of a soul left an urgent, argent mark
on the walls of tomorrow.  and my life is forfeit.


copyright William F. DeVault (wfdv)