The Pen and The Wind

There is legend written, 
About that legendary egg of Draco,
“The hatchling shall take the form,
 That represent’s the heart of whosoever hatches it.”
I’ve held such legend close to me,
For in my heart and mind,  
Does a very Pendragon’s egg lie.

What form shall it take when it hatch?
Shall it be a being of the darkest horror?
With jagged talons to greedily clutch,
Anything that should fall in it’s gaze,
It’s hateful vision that looks upon the terrible world,
With vile glee,
And spews a black flame that destroys all in it’s path,
A flame that is fueled by sin and darkness,
And shall never cease burning the souls of men.

Or shall it take the holy form?
Will it fly upon feathered holy wings,
 To observe all in it’s judgemental eye, 
Observing all from the distant clouds,
Allowing no space for chaos,
Or human error,
Incinerating all that could err,
Out of a deap seated fear of darkness?

Or shall it be near formless,
Corrupted by the unfeeling Void?
A silhouette in Draco’s form,
One with an unceasing appetite,
Consuming all light and shadow in it’s path,
Leaving a warpath of sheer nothing, 
Destroying everything and never satisfied?

I can only hope it may be taken,
And given a higher form,
Let it be beyond good and evil,
Let it be a beacon of knowledge and inspiration,
Let it be something that lives up to the lore,
As something of awe and beauty,
A sheer force of nature that stands through history,
And let the lines between it and I become indistinguishable.

But it is all potential,
And it is all left to you,
The egg is in your hands, world,
Just be warned, Creation, 
You do reap what you sew.