oh, sweet dragonborn,
burn down everything around you.

THE LITTLE POETS SING OF LITTLE THINGS:
HOPE, CHEER, AND FAITH, SMALL QUEENS AND PUPPET KINGS;
LOVERS WHO KISSED AND THEN WERE MADE AS ONE,
AND MODEST FLOWERS WAVING IN THE SUN.
THE MIGHTY POETS WRITE IN BLOOD AND TEARS
AND AGONY THAT, FLAME-LIKE, BITES AND SEARS.
THEY REACH THEIR MAD BLIND HANDS INTO THE NIGHT,
TO PLUMB ABYSSES DEAD TO HUMAN SIGHT;
TO DRAG FROM GULFS WHERE LUNACY LIES CURLED,
MAD,
MONSTROUS NIGHTMARE SHAPES TO BLAST THE WORLD.
—JACK KIRBY