Where are you?

Will you be magic to-night and put dreams in bed with me, now, soon? Fires of, fires beneath, embers. What fuels this constant burn? I will soon call out for the Dragons night, but fear this fire is stronger again, than he. I wish for such strength that is not given me, where are you? I own pain, I am with a hot, iron yoke, too tight and ill fitting that my arms are heavier than fear and even though, I feel all this, it is my stomach that envies constant loss. How fragile can ones ache be that is as delicate as the minds tissue, split, cried and intimatly parted raw, but left breathing in gasps of prayers for defeat. Somehow this can not be what it is with out the Dragons fog, where are you? Bastard, where are you?