The lion lays quietly atop an overhanging hill.
He waits, watches in the vain fervor that his prey
Will come to him in deadly night like a diet pill
That will stop his hunger and permit his teeth to stay
Sharp, glistening white, creating a shiver of fear
Of their ferocity and ability to tear apart an arm,
Or important extremities that flash their spear
Of speed trying to outrun the King.
The atmosphere of fear is so authentic
That I can feel the lion’s eyes shifting silently,
Watching guardedly, waiting patiently to pounce happily
On his unsuspecting prey. His jaws are cave like
In their imposing strength and force of bite.
Never fear the lion, for you know he attacks
To survive, not for pleasure.
Fear those who appear like sheep, but are
More serpent or fox, for their poisons
Attack the soul and destroy lives as if doing you favors.
Poetry for Change 