The Lion

In the beginning there were no cages,
Just liberty, limitless in eternity,
And spirit in all its wondrous forms,
The spark of new suns being born,
Glimmer in the darkness of deep space.


You have loped the sky long before man,
Those leonine jewels, Leo now called,
Hunting the white rivers of Milky Way,
Six pearls of star on nights black velvet,
Over moon wreathed April, stalking still.


All religions imprison spirit in torture books,
And call it ‘love’ when ink defines the law,
For immortal souls, who pace to and fro,
As faith attacks it owns flanks, famished, insane,
Slowly tearing itself apart in search of certainties.


Graceful now in golden form, flowing,
As wild fire upon the dry savannah,
Oh joy ! For both the hunt and bite,
A whimper of warm blood in my throat,
Wetted from the zebra I stalk and kill.


I am a lion and this line is my land,
Where words are blood upon the page,
I hunt here for rhyme and visions,
For pelts of poems that await unknowing,
That slowly, slowly, death has come.