Dragon Chaser

Où es-tu, Dragon Chaser?

The dragon on my back

hides it's fire

until you look in my green eyes

and dance me to that old French song.

Say yes, say yes

O' Tailor of sound.

The black on white

draws down my spine

and hums the tunes

of my letters that fill their pages.

No art has astounded

as the art of ink.

No art has persevered

as the art of word.

When I retire

that mark may fade

but never will my words

or the memory of your

song.