He strolled with a scar on his 
chest and a shine in his eyes 
and kept his sword close
as foes followed nearby.    

Blue-bruised skin told the tale
of treachery. Still, he laughed 
a laugh to convince passersby 
he was supremely fine. 

He rebuilt fences, 
and defended the defenseless 
who lived under the crush 
of gold-lined fingers. 

His pace slowed and his hand 
held the helm of his weapon.  
But he rubbed his knuckles
when the fight was at an end. 

Air swept up his capri blue cape, 
and it swirled as he sat on his steed.
He was worn yet
stood by his solemn oath.  

It happened the way it does . . . 
a spirit dragon called his name. 
And he answered—
and the light went out again.