Flynn & Crimson
There was a red dragon. Flynn called her, Crimson
who slept in in a cave, on a hill,
where she felt like the cave was a prison
Only flying when the dark night was still
She spoke in a language of thunder,
She lived through the pages of time,
Only Flynn, would lean close just to wonder
at her heart beat, its rhythm, its rhyme.
The rivers below her flowed silver,
they braided the dusk into flame,
and Flynn, thought that strangers would shiver,
For the world did not know her by name.
So, curled-up where the heather grows colder,
where the moon drips so silk and unspun,
and Crimson, settled down at his shoulder
like a quest, half-dreamed and undone.
And still she would rise to the singing,
when her fire like a match to the deep,
with wings like a verdict was bringing,
and a heart we had forgotten to keep.
Crimson kissed Flynn, who was sleeping,
and though she nver thought they would part
She whispered, “I am yours for the keeping,
Nestled here in the flames of your heart”