The lion is pounding at my door
his main wisping in the violent wind
the violent cat eats all in store
killing and slaughtering helpless kin
the blood of the family runs dry
mixed with the mud and mangled fur
the enormous lion turns to cry
sitting in the majestic plains under the stars lure
the rolling winds sweep the gold of the grass
tuffing rugged lines across his spine
the creature bolts to flee the night and pass
running as the wind in an untouched line
he sets with what little was left of the sun
because he knows this lion will always be on the run.
Loren C.
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