—A whiff,
Sniff, sneeze;
All disperse.
Behind the sun. Just behind; on the back of it. There are shreds and pricks. Spiky strands of hair, protruding devilishly. Conical and pointed. Fearsome and loathsome.
The dragon has not slept for ages. Mythical ages. But myth is for us. It hasn’t slept for two days. Millions of years. His eyes are drowsy. It wishes to sleep. But before sleeps, it has to sneeze.
—Discovery News
“Every 500 years the sun suspends an explosion that cleans up the unwanted particles in our atmosphere, thus preventing it from freezing (contaminate) with the other celestial and earthly waste.”
—Drowsy at heart and tired in the eye.
It might just fall off. Float in the sky.
Just one such day when we wouldn’t notice, and the stars would fail to warn. Just one such untimely evening when we would sit at our ends to warm beside a fire or a heater. Or some other device. Just that uneven geometric moment. The dragon shall close his eyes. To our cold surprise.
—O’ lord what with the skies?
Look how everyone dies!
Turn on the damn lights!
—The dragon of darkness
With sunlight in his eyes
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