The Dragon's Hearth

I have thought of sealing the cave,

letting the torches gutter,

burying myself under stone and silence.

I have thought of hoarding nothing but ash,

closing my jaws around the last ember

and refusing the world my breath.

But I am dragon.

My chest is a forge.

Even when I want stillness,

the fire coils and roars.

Even when my scales split,

my ribs glow like iron.

I have walked through storms

with wings torn ragged,

still folding them wide to shield another.

I have been cut open,

blood soaking my claws,

and still apologized for the stain.

Even when I wanted to turn my fire inward,

I have bent my neck to warm the hands of others.

Love has been my hoard—

not gold, not jewels,

but the stubborn gift of warmth.

People take it,

leave it,

mistake it for a trap,

and still I heap it higher,

fanning the flame until the cave glows red.

After each battle I patch my scales with soot.

After each betrayal I gather my own ashes

and make a bed of them.

I curl around the embers,

wing sheltering,

breath steadying,

until the fire stirs again.

There are nights I hate it—

the endless burning,

the furnace I cannot quench.

There are mornings I rise anyway,

smoke trailing from my throat,

fire in my belly,

ready to carry warmth through another storm.

Another hunter may come,

another storm may strip my hide.

Still I will keep the cave open.

Still I will say:

come in.

Rest.

Take the fire.

It is here for you,

though it costs me.

This is no redemption arc.

No fairy-tale beast tamed by a kiss.

This is what I am:

dragonfire and scars,

infinite love and infinite wound,

keeper of a hearth that does not go dark.

So this poem ends not in triumph,

and not in despair,

but in the glow of coals,

wings curved around the light,

a dragon breathing on the embers,

keeping them alive.

Even when I wish for ash,

the fire answers anyway.

Even when I long to hoard silence,

my chest gives out heat.

Even when I would rather sleep through centuries,

I still keep the flame.

And if you stumble in from the storm,

if your hands are numb and your spirit thin—

the cave is open.

The fire is waiting.

The dragon still tends the hearth.