He Runs

in a limitless world

where panthers fly,

a lion slips his cage

barbed bars tear his fur

rend his hide

still he pushes and

pries and wrests

himself

away

he runs

his silver mane

(a prize beyond measure)

unfettered in the wind

his dusky breath

(so used to whispers)

paced to strides both

quick and strong

he runs

the circus strains

(hurdy-gurdy orphan bands)

fall away behind

the chattering throngs

(sycophantic chimps)

fade to dust across the

burning veldt

he runs

he smells her

(clay and musk and blood)

one of his own

lithe and powerful

(bone and flesh and sinew)

silent and alone

lying near a pool

he stops

the end-day sun

(hail-red earthen sky)

bounces off her

golden back

(supple coat aglow )

to blind him

where he stands

he stares

whether by choice

or chance

she does not

move

an echo flex

of one firm haunch

the only sign of life

he steps

a soundless hunter

(hungry, aching)

a silent leap

(graceful, sure)

and she is his

her tameless body

(alive awash)

heaves against his weight

he closes

jaws upon her shoulder

teeth puncture

scars

that match his own

he thrusts

pounding deep inside her

quivers, shudders

screams

that meet his own

he falls

and all is

still

until

she moves

crawling from beneath

to rock his

(oh-so-heavy)

head in her splendid paws

You must return, my Lion.

(a canting purr)

The cage awaits.

And the circus

cannot

continue without

You.

he stirs

he stares

he stands

he roars

he runs