Would You Still Love Me if I Were a Wyrm?

Would you still love me if I were a wyrm?

Scaled hide, soft underbelly, leathery wings. If in my belly churned the heat of a thousand suns,

vomited up like an eruption of hate to melt the ornate plate armor of some hero,

his horse an unfortunate pawn, charging up the hill at me. Lance aimed for my throat,

rider and beast turned to charred bone.

Would you still love me if I were a wyrm?

Wingless, teeth like poisoned daggers, slithering out of my cave to eat a sheep and maybe a shepherd if I’m lucky,

some strapping lad from the village with his grandfather’s spear and an oaken shield marching up the path, blessed by the priest.

A well-meaning but futile gesture. He will not be buried in the kirkyard.

Would you still love me if I were a wyrm?

Sitting on my pile of gold, a mythic hoard, the subject of many a tavern story and song.

Indifferent to the wealth and what it could do for so many, and how many would risk their lives for it.

Not for greed, just a small bit of comfort and some bread for their children.

My hoard, mine alone, and a desire for more more more.

Would you still love me if I were a wyrm?