The Watcher in the Lamplight

In a chair too grand for its size,

draped in threads of forgotten stories,

the lizard lounges—

a quiet king in a kingdom of dust motes and lamplight.

Between the folds of woven lace,

it watches, still as time itself,

tail curling over upholstery worn soft

by the hush of years.

What treasures does it guard

in this miniature world?

Not rubies or gold,

but the weight of quiet afternoons,

the hum of pages turning,

the warmth of a lamp in the deep blue hush of evening.

The door is ajar—

a whisper of wind through the tiny frame.

Yet it does not stir.

It knows that comfort is its own kind of power,

that stillness holds a magic all its own.

I take a step,

careful not to break the spell.

Here, in this place of small wonders,

a dragon does not need fire to be mighty—

only the patience to rest,

the wisdom to stay.

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I didn't really like my original poem, and nor did anybody else apparently!

So, the dragon is now a lizard!

Thank you Amanda, for the opportunity to rewrite my poetry!

The original poem...