He walks proud,
his head tilted upwards,
pointing to the periwinkle blue sky,
the roof of his kingdom.
And as he walks,
the earth shivers and shakes,
the trees fold in half,
the mountains wither,
the bones of all the lost souls
dance underneath the ground,
as if to salute him.
And they all bow, oh,
how they bow to his divine presence.
The world around him shrinks,
as if his intimidating presence is the sole reason
this petty world exists.
The air pushes against his mane,
who is darker than the darkest night,
and his paws,
stronger than a lightning striking a tree,
move and craft a path anew.
So he moves, exerting his majesty,
oozing power and confidence.
His breath is like fire,
burning everything it touches,
burying it into infinity.
The crimson red of his fiery eyes,
whose stare threatens everything it touches,
as if even fear itself is afraid of him,
seem to light the world on fire.
His gaze is fixated on the sunset that is falling over his land
and yet its' greatness does not belittle him,
as if the gods give him praise
by painting the greatest of all paintings,
only to entertain and cater to the needs of his fierce soul.
And in all the chaos of the universe,
the only sound that can be heard
is the beating of his powerful heart,
which seems to give melody to the world,
as if it's a theme to march to,
nothing but his heart,
that holds infinite power and wisdom.