Let not fear rule your heart, nor your spirit, nor your hand, my valorous one,
Even as you face my writhing wrath, hissing and yawning fangs to the air, I sport above you, delighted by thee clad in futile armor, by thy shining sword, aiming for my scales not once pierced,
And the sheen of sweet sweat across your blessed face, how I love it.
And your blade arm firm, fierce, unwavering and yet bound by the rhythm of your terrified heart as my wings spread their incandescent iridescence against your doomed courage.
There you stand, legs wide, broad chest heaving, leagues from the heart of your hearth, in my den. In MY den. Across treacherous maps you have come to dispatch my glory, and your eyes, I see, are wide and full of a love you had not expected.
Captivated by the swirling current of my presence, unable to find purchase on any single aspect, but seared upon your heart is my horrific beauty, slithering fire upon the wing.
And although you know you could, you would, worship me as your fiery goddess for all time with the eternity I would give you, you find some corner of cruelty that abhors my whirling flame, ridden by no man, and you charge forward, roaring your gorgeous killing rage, which I savor in my grief, that none so brave as you shall come again.