The Dragon
By W. D. Chase

Through the country of my thoughts he prowls spewing smoke and flame.
Screaming of unlived dreams cost, roaring with life's ambitions lost.
Forgetting prizes and trophies won dwelling instead on the un-done.

His plated scales tempered in fires of frustrating doubt glisten as stalks about.
He roars, across the bones of broken hopes, failure steaming from his snout.
Ambition quakes this is the toughest challenger I've faced, the meanest of the race.

Can I slay this monster and survive?  How do you kill that which is not alive?
He grows as doubt shakes with loathsome hand this puny "self made" man.
Age once a good excuse, calls to past mistakes still sharp of tooth.

A final battle I must face with this monster that has no forgiving grace.
Created by my very own hand he seeks to devour this older man.
When I was young I would have laughed and stabbed it with humors shaft.

Can I  smile together one strong spear or am I fond of things so drear?
Let us settle this here and now the game no longer pleases.
I'll laugh it to it's doom and walk in an afternoon of autumn breezes.