QotD: You've successfully slain the Dragon...

The egg was stone,
big as my fist
sitting hard in my chest.
Was it the wink?
The murmured good morning?
The twitch of lips as colleagues droned?
A tiny crack
slowly splintered in a dozen directions
like a windshield hit
just so by a rock
skittering up from spinning tires.

The hatchling
made me laugh:
inquisitive nose poking everywhere,
onion paper wings testing mild summer air,
baby claws scritching, scratching,
wounds so slight they were adorable.

The yearling
frightened me at times
as flamed hiccups started small conflagrations,
but leathery wings could open now,
could soar:
they needed room
beyond four small walls,
needed parks and city streets,
needed voyages, and explorations
of the world.

When did it become a dragon?
Was it the day our apartment burst into flame?
The day the office turned maelstrom?
That lightning quick fracas in the park?
It had to be done:
I donned my steel,
protection against fiery blows.
My blade slashed sure;
spurting blood answered.
We sparred on and on--
I’d let him grow too big.
My arms trembled with fatigue,
my legs turned jelly.
Strike and strike and strike
until one day it fell,
light fading from jeweled eyes.

Sound returns,
and light.
I gaze across aeons,
lift a cup to Saint George,
having now myself
lived beyond my own meaning.