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The Name of the Dragon

by George Converse

Fear is not an imagined thing,
it’s a Dragon that never dies;
a terror in a cave, in us within,
that darkly awaiting, lies.

Those who would choose the way of the sword
must learn the name of the Beast;
to conquer its soul and challenge its word,
and thus, its power to cease.

The name of the Dragon is not of Death,
tho’ some would have it seem;
nor of Pain, nor Grief, nor Peace bereft,
abandoned in tortured dreams.

There is no face to this Serpent cold,
and no manner of common strike;
and even the bravest of warriors bold,
has nightmared this lonely fight.

The Drakon strikes not with a rush,
but slinks in, with the door even shut;
not with fire, nor roar from a brimstone gush,
but in the sunken fall of the gut.

The Drache comes in the light of day, as well as in the dark.
It searches out lives of blissful ease,
leaving its name in an image stark,
of a man bent low at the knees.

The name of the Dragon is not as Smaug,
nor as a monster in Beowulf’s soul;
but, it’s spoke in the heart, in the fear of the fog,
when each of us loses control.

The name of the DDraig is a fearsome one,
and to slay it requires a key;
to face the Kraken, and not turn and run,
learn that the name of the Dragon is Me.

George Converse is a retired U.S. Marine. He and his wife, Mary Ann, live in North Carolina.

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