Eyes of the Dragon

Beneath the gilded wings,

in a throne of pearls and bone,

it waits—fear incarnate,

a dragon spun from soft light

and the whisper of storms.

The breath catches

where the air turns to ash,

where the heart clenches,

tight as the chest of the beast,

its eyes aglow with knowing.

Its gaze pierces like the curve

of talons raking time itself.

What is it you guard,

keeper of treasures untold?

Not jewels or gold,

but the weight of moments unspoken,

the gleam of dreams hoarded in silence.

I step forward,

my shadow fracturing

against the pale light of your scales.

Each step trembles,

but the ground holds firm.

I know the fire will come—

it always does.

Yet fear is not the fire,

not the roar,

not the gleam of sharpened teeth.

It is the pause before—

the unblinking stillness

where I meet your eyes.

The silence screams first,

then the voice, low and echoing:

“What is it you fear?”

The answer rises, unbidden—

not your teeth or claws,

not the fire or the end,

but the treasure you guard:

the truth

I dared not claim.

So I stand still,

arms open to the flame,

and watch as fear burns away

to something brighter.