Dedicated to Those Who Can't Seem to Keep Their Space Clean

In the nest of velvet and ancient tomes and golden statuettes, there lies a slumbering creature.
With soft growls, she curls up, her long snout tucked beneath her tail,
her scales like silvery rain drops moving over stain glass.
Dreams come, and her paws stretch out, her raptor claws unsheathing and relaxing,
her weapons in a hunting reverie.
It is here she stews in her predatory rage.

My room is a dragon's hoard, with treasures strewn from corner to corner.
Candles of various scents line the walls, their savory perfumes smoking their fiery breath,
clothes scattered here and there, a princess's wardrobe of silks and satin, and jewels dripping from the nooks, reflecting gleaming shine on the walls.
Treasure chests of kings and counts brimming with platinum and silver, gilded pieces spilling,
frothing over the edges stack upon each other like dominoes.

My desk is a dragon's ledger, full of lost documents,
DaVinci's forgotten blueprints, Earhart's disappeared flight-plans,
the first draft of the Magna Carta - they all sit gathering that thin blanket of dust
as they lie together in a pile of parchments.

My door is the Black Gate, and Dante's words of warning hang over the fire,
but still I gain entrance,
and although the door slams behind me, a foreboding sound to others, I show no fear.
This is my cave, my sacred place, my hoarding chamber.
This is my Dragon's Lair.