Above all, beauty begs to be admired, and vanity longs to be placated.
There shall remain records of the gods and immortals on limestones and craved tombs, through the hands that laboured and bled – hands meticulously guided by the whims of something eerily familiar that since become impossible to comprehend; much like the act of mindfulness with no awareness of the mind which governs the practice of survival.
Such revelations are shocking in nature, yet tend to stultify the self that – in a way, fit the reptilian nature at best – of a fractured piece from the crust of perfection that deformed its own beauty in awe of better protection, froze its own heartbeat in return for bigger prey, and clipped its own wings in spite of the boundless reign over the skies.
It was luck really, that somehow revived beauty, a sort of menacing gleam in the eyes and with any shade of the rainbow ever imagined.
Before this, it was unspeakable that Creation was flawed to reward the ugly en masse; now it was a relief that balance has been overturned, and though dragons were the epitome of beauty, and the skies have never stopped growing, any effort to topple the scales is a ridicule of not oneself but of its entire ancestry, and that there shall be no beauty equivalent or greater that transcends history, because when dragons start to morph into hideous mammals, their beauty, along with everything else pleasing to the eye, have no choice but to die.