The Black Dragon

I am the last of my kind. Nobody believes anymore in the magic that hides within reality. Sunlit doorways through hedges and pixie dust on the children. I hone my skills alone in the forest, under the deep green canopy, shaded from prying eyes. That shadow that chills you, casting shapes across your sunlit path, is me. I alone ride the skies, astride this last survivor, tamed, and as my steed, still mighty. Iridescent shimmering light reflects off his black scales, the sun blocked by leathery wings. Wings large enough to cover that orb as they beat furiously, keeping us aloft. I am the last dragonslayer. They call me in their dreams, for they doubt my true existence. But I hold the famed blue sword, and the legacy is mine alone. Dragons are only graceful in flight, and oh how we fly!  Soaring to the sun like Icarus, and falling in circular tumbles until we hit the atmosphere. You see us, and rub your eyes in disbelief. That's alright. We'll  remain hidden, away from rabid, prying eyes. We are mythical; he is legend, and he is the last dragon.