The Handsome Basilisk

Sleeps in the sun, curled up in the dry grass like a cinnamon bun

His green eyes that hypnotize – closed. His sharp claws tucked and folded comfortably - under its nose

Jewel bright scales form a rainbow coronet - regal and rare

Thin wisps of smoke exhale with a hiss - with each raspy snore - there is just a faint lisp

A three hand-span long, perfect, Cockatrice, found unawares – no dire chance of a lethal glance or a fatal glare

Per chance, dreaming, of a time long ago, when he and his brethren ruled a world awash in blood red and the shaking in your boots, kind of dread

Of all the lovely screaming in the Warsaw terrors – rows and rows of townfolk statues so pleasing

Their grusome names spoken only in hush whispers of fear, not like now when they are hunted with mirrors

When he was not so alone – so horribly, horribly, alone

I do not dare touch him

I know, I should run away – and not look back

One glance will turn me to stone

Sleeping or not, he is still the deadly Serpent King

But he is so shiny, so captivatingly, beautiful – my heart flutters - I stay to gaze just one perfect moment more

Then one emerald eye opens wide

Too late now - my heart stops