We things of shadow have faded.
Washed out like the city stars by brilliant electric lights.
Our dim mysteries shown shoddy,
Reduced to tales for children by the eager strivings of science.
The coats of the werewolves are worn threadbare
By too many Hollywood thrillers.
While the boggarts battle with scarred alley cats
And pampered pussies for the saucers of milk once left for them alone
The last dragon in all the world sighs in his hidden cave.
His scales are cracked and patched, vulnerable to any knight passing by.
He longs for the glorious death that is his by right
To go down with fire splashing, perhaps taking his enemy with him.
But no knight remains to challenge him
An all the fair maidens have gotten jobs modeling cosmetics.
I too mourn them, the bright princesses that once went into the woods
(And these too are only a shadow now of what they were)
To sit and wait in hopes that I would come to them.
Never mind that they often were but bait for the men with dogs and spears.
That too was part of what I was.
My horn has grown dull now.
Even my power fails before the dark spewing
Of a hundred million mechanical cars.