by Laura M., 12
The two horns on the side of its head were worn
and scratched and chipped from the days of fighting.
Its eyes glowed like a dying ember on a cold winter night
when the wind is blowing and the snow has paused.
His hot breath smelled like smoke
from a fire that had engulfed a huge piece of wood.
His large and sharp teeth were like daggers,
bright against the rough red color of the inside of his mouth.
His claws looked similar to his horns,
black and withered from the times of escape,
and his tail dragged behind him
unlike the times of battle.
His wings, gone, no longer on his body,
were held as a trophy by those who chased him out
of the land he once lived in.
And now we walked in the sandstorm
away from all he knew.
He knew he would never again be the same.
I knew it, too.