by Nick Gisburne
He rescues them from damage and neglect
Forgotten books of dark, demonic lore
A feverish obsession to collect
Addicted to their drug, he craves for more
But this, he knows, will be his greatest prize
Forbidden magic, stolen from the dead
The symbols swirl and snake before his eyes
A storm of flame and shadow fills his head
He wakes upon a floor of amber glass
His body, scorched, still breathing, still alive
He tells himself the pain must surely pass
Tenacity compels him to survive
The dragon scratches ‘Human’ on the jar
A rarity - the live ones always are
