Eat the Dragon

I don't know how to describe this. Now I know how H. P. Lovecraft felt.

On the wings of the great lizard, the clipper flies.
Somewhere down there, in all that misery, is a boy who doesn’t want to die.
He can’t see. No, no, my dear, he can’t be;
he tries to run. Oh, how he flees. Truthfully, it’s kind of funny.

No one hears that, the clinking, it’s the Walking Man
and he, well, he has a plan.
See, he is no ordinary man;
yet, at the same time, he is still the man with the plan.

He is still the man with the idea, the man with the straight razor.
Most people can’t see through the haze or
the daze he has so happily created,
when looking into his eyes, seeing the seas and light faded.

On the wings of the great lizard, the whole world is destined to run aflame, die.
In the end, it all begins. Every spirit sobs, cries when the dragon flies merrily by.
The Walking Man and the Man with the Bloody Hands,
the two are guided by fate’s trickster-like hand.

What has been said before shall be said again:
here, in these ill-fated skies, be dragons.