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Wounded Lions

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bloody, grown
the broken high grass
reaches still
by and by the body,
around it surround it orange
drips and puddles
wafting warmth on a dusted crust
cloaked scarlet now, for this
is the latter half-light,
where the king resides collar
sponged dark, alone, save what
flora persists to cradle his crown
thatched and gold
in this failing flame,
a fire now whipped and pensive,
cascading the coals of erstwhile time
upon his sweetest dreams,
over the clout of a glinting spirit,
and even in this…
in the telltale hour
as the winds kneel
his bellow is heard,
his aura is flexed,
bowing out,
fit to offend his fall
because he hasn’t…
never will,
wont,
cant,
while his eyes shimmers still
while his hearts throb wafts ever stronger
than the fading scarlet light





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