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  • Grant Handgis ~ Author/Poet

Learning * Punishment


Learning * Punishment

How was I to know strops were leather dragons, licking fire bringing death to gluteal nerves for touching girls there, bringing home bounty not in trade, and using wonderful yarns explaining the discrepancies invited the dragon upon me again, much closer to the heart of reason, from my world teetering on the precipice of unknowns into yours of swearing and tears, leaving behind their trails of pain on an unshaven face.

The dragon lives, even now only fettered by the chains forged from trials, held at bay by habit and trust and years of searching the heart. He isn't dead or on vacation, but alive and thriving in habitude gorging on tradition, just laying low silently in wait of your darkest deeds until evoked by the strokes of enlightenment riding on the hand of truth now your small voice forming the guile opening the door of ordeals.

Our world is the same, father to son to son one from the other one molding the other, and given time, and your tribulations you will find your spot in the corner, where the dragon stands chained, and roaring at your quiescent grief, and the pain of tears on an unshaven face will bid the dragon lie down and yield.

Grant Handgis Copyright 1979-2011


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