The lion kills for life, and life is rarely grateful. We will hold fast our fingers
clasped tight like kites were flying, like the cracks in boulders held our weight.
Do you see heart there in the thin shadows? Do you see flames in the fleeing clouds?
Will the saltwater support you or the lava entomb you where you stand?
The fragile wing and barely blinking eye of the swallow awaits your answer,
bring it to her
on a gentle breeze in the soft light of a morning sun. A seed flies with you,
another willing victim of the wind. The sand burs embed deeply in the paw
of the huntress. Will you remove it with your teeth, your neck bent and smooth
like alabaster, the jugular pulsing like a neon sign? Will you then pray for peace?
Could it be that the stars ripple with your every breath?
© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019