Reflections of another self,
skin still brown, but scaly.
Teeth become fangs,
nails become claws,
vestigial wings
jutting from my back.
Monstrous, miraculous,
I was born of dragons.

My mother, pale blue,
descended from healers and marines.
Ethereal, but powerful,
indomitable.
She called me her lucky penny.
I didn’t understand then.

My father, rich red orange.
Gleaming, vivacious, self-assured,
the sun in the sky,
the core of the earth.
I learned early on
not to meet his eyes.

My older sister, deep purple;
the color of royalty,
of poisonous flowers.
Everyone bowed to her whim,
and her talent unparalleled, too.
I stumbled in her footsteps.

My younger sister, yellow,
as bright as her personality.
Buttercups and bumblebees,
growth and spring and cheer.
I tried to clear a path,
then looked up to see her fly.

World on the cusp of war,
friction and tensions rising high,
words and talents slung around.
The weight of magic,
the sound of drums,
consequences hovering, waiting to fall.

Resistance, justice, freedom,
held fragile between fangs and claws.
Long forgotten disasters,
hidden traces of the ancestors.
In the mouth of the cave
waits the leader, made of tin.

I am not a brown dragon.

jacksgreyson, Copper (2017-04-16)

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