St. Cyril of Jerusalem, in instructing catechumens, wrote:
“The dragon sits by the side of the road, watching those who pass. Beware lest he devour you.
We go to the Father of Souls, but it is necessary to pass by the dragon.”
No matter what form the dragon may take, it is of this mysterious passage past him, or into his jaws,
that stories of any depth will always be concerned to tell.
The dragon shows up daily at my desk,
rears his hot head and breathes his hot breath
all over the keys of my typewriter,
singeing the page, the space bar warm to the touch.
I don’t mind him. I don’t even ask
“Why me?” anymore. My muse is death
dressed in rage and fire, hungry for human
fools. And I’ve got a million of ‘em.
The lives I save are all my own. They’re
dear to me as children. So much
of my love spent on invention.
He waits, impatient, as they each walk past,
the blind and the lame, the deaf and the dumb.
It pains me to lose even one.