His armour is detachment.
His steed is the music he rode in on, the rhythmic, heavy
thunder of hooves.
His dragon is a writhing, tenebrous thing. It has a thousand
eyes that watch him by day and judge him. It has a hundred mouths that flicker
with tongues of barbed comment, and cruel claws which rake him with doubt.
His weapons are forged in the fire of his heart, and here,
‘neath night’s banner, he dances.
His fight with the dragon is eternal, but in these moments of grace and energy he is winning and he is nothing but happy.
His fight with the dragon is eternal, but in these moments of grace and energy he is winning and he is nothing but happy.
Metaphor, indeed. Perhaps for writing? The agony and the ecstasy therein?
ReplyDeleteLoved the imagery, howe'er it stands.
Thanks Larry. I know what I was writing about, but I love that you thought it was about writing, I really do. I think I'll leave this one open to everyone's interpretation. =)
DeleteSounds to me like he got lucky. ;-)
ReplyDeleteHeh, but no. ;)
DeleteThanks, Tim. =)
Like Larry, I too feel it is about a writer, and how he deals with criticism, and doubt, both from himself and others.
ReplyDelete"Neath night's banner." Dreaming? The place of his imagination where his muse flourishes?
Nice interpretation, Steve. Thank you.
DeleteI think I fight with that dragon too quite often.
ReplyDeleteA lot of us do, Helen. Thanks. =)
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