It's disgust apparent, it seizes the runes - esoteric only to new born eyes - and gulps them down mightily. It's vigor reduced I devour myself.
There is glee somewhere to be heard,
it brims a silver chalice - guardian of the morning's production. I take him in and add him to myself frugally and carefully. It dissolves in effervescent light.
On the breeze, a cool wind brings the beginnings of the fortitude of draconic lore.
This will not perish as easily as the piecemeal man
in the maw of mediocrity.