He roams the house,
a hungry lion stalking;
moving slowly,
and deliberately;
waiting for an opening.
We do our best to deaden
our quickened hearts.
We hide in the tall grass of fear,
and make frozen masks of our faces.
We move about,
skittish and nervous,
avoiding his ravenous gaze
which burns intensely
through the blue haze
of a Pall Mall.
He moves on you slowly
asking a simple question or two;
but you know he is inching,
inching towards the moment
when he will explode;
in a great roar,
and he will bound upon you,
and kill you.
He will leave you for the hyenas,
and wild dogs.
He is long dead.
I have grown old myself.
I see the arc of my life and know,
the cruel, insatiable lion,
the one I feared,
the one I hated,
still hunts
among the shadows
within me.
--thought I'd try one more of these before experimenting with different topics and styles.



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