Dragon Whelp

Tucked low beneath the ashen sky,
Yet far above where cinders rest,
A shadowed form begins to fly,
From out a charred and smoking nest.

At first he plummets from that lonely spire.

But then he finds his scaly wings,
And twists his body, sounds a roar,
His instinct shows him all the things
He needs to do to rise and soar.

He looks above, and feels that sharp desire,
To urge his wings to pull him ever higher.

Into the clouds he sends a call,
Its sound is low, but very strong,
And though he may, as yet, be small,
This whelp is welcomed to the song.

It is a burning, fearful sort of choir,
But still that song is something to admire,
And holds ideals to which he can aspire.

The dragons soar, their dancing flames
Ignite the air, and all they touch,
And eager to enjoy the games,
That little whelp may try too much.

But fate can make a fool into a liar,
And consequences can, at times, be dire,
For though he burned with innocence, not ire,
The Whelp can fall to his internal fire.